Page 93

A pulse of alarm enters my awareness.

It is not mine.

The feeling carries a brief image of black veins spreading across my side, followed by the sharp scent of rirzed and the sensation of cold water around calloused hands.

Fiona wakes.

She sits upright, and the blanket falls into her lap. Her pale blue eyes find me immediately.

“You moved.”

“My apologies for the disturbance.”

“You are not sorry.”

“No.”

She rises and crosses the room. Sleep has left a crease along her cheek. She presses two fingers to my wrist and counts my pulse.

Her concern reaches me before her expression reveals it.

It is a warm pressure threaded with caution. Beneath it comes an impression of a cup tipping, dark liquid spilling over white linen.

I look toward the covered medicine.

Fiona follows my gaze. “What?”

“You were thinking about the next dose.”

“I am always thinking about medicine when a patient ignores instructions.”

“I did not hear the thought.”

“Then how did you know?”

“I saw a cup fall.”

Her fingers leave my wrist.

The loss of contact weakens the foreign sensation, but it does not erase it.

“What did you do?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“Your magic disagrees.”

I sit upright. The curse protests, sending a narrow blade of cold through my side.

Fiona reaches for my shoulder, then stops when I stabilize myself.

“What else did you receive?” I ask.

“The scar.”

“You saw it with your eyes last night.”

“Not like this. I saw black veins. I smelled rirzed. Then I felt relief that did not belong to me.”