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He was just about to inquire, when there was a commotion near the door and in walked the most striking man he’d ever laid eyes on. Thick black hair framed his prominent cheekbones and lush lips, but he did not carry himself as if aware of his own beauty. Instead, he walked tentatively, uncertainty in each step. The aura around him was the color of the sky on a cloudless day, which told Galen he carried some melancholy inside him. When their eyes met, Galen held in a gasp. The man had different-colored irises—one green, one blue—and Galen could not look away, no matter how much his eyes burned from exhaustion.
Azriel carried a tray, and when he stepped toward the bed, his aura deepened to a vibrant cobalt mixed with sea green, the colors winding and churning as if Azriel were warring with himself over something.
“I am Azriel,” he said softly, tentatively, and Galen immediately hoped to hear more of that timbre, if only so he’d be able to understand Azriel’s intriguing aura. “Madam Langley would like you to drink some of this tea, to help you sleep.”
He considered asking what was in the tea, but since it came from the apothecary, they would not go through all this trouble to poison or hurt him, would they? If so, he was already defenseless with so many in the room.
Wren sat at his bedside, and after he and Sparrow helped him sit up, he sipped the tea gratefully. The liquid warmed his scratchy throat, though it stung his swollen lip. Regardless, he could feel its relaxing effect, just as Azriel foretold.
Azriel produced a mortar and pestle from the tray he’d set near Galen’s feet, and handed the contents to Wren. “You’ll need to rub this into his wounds.”
“Perhaps you would be better suited to—” Wren began, but Azriel was shaking his head, pink stripes slashing his cheeks.
“You’re taking good care of him. I’ll help when I’m needed.”
When Galen looked up at Azriel, their eyes connected, and Galen now noted a thread of color pulsing in his aura that closely matched his flushed skin. What could it mean? Lighter than red but brighter than purple…like magenta. It made him feel out of sorts, his stomach tumbling in a funny way.
“Are you a healer?” Galen asked because he was curious, but also to distract himself from Azriel’s mesmerizing gaze and because he enjoyed the soothing sound of his voice. He got the impression Azriel measured his words—but he’d only just met all of them, so how would he know?
“No, I…” Azriel seemed to stumble, and his flush deepened. “I only assist Madam Langley in the apothecary.”
“Don’t let him fool you,” Bellamy said from the foot of the bed. “He’s become as essential as her right hand and is very good at what he does. I’m certain you’ll feel much better soon enough.”
Azriel dipped his head, the colors in his aura changing to a deep purple hue that Galen perceived as passion, in its many forms. In this case, it likely meant Azriel enjoyed this work, that it made him feel useful. And Galen understood that sentiment immediately.
He felt that way with his drawings—not that they were very useful, but only that he liked working with his hands, and maybe someday his renderings might make someone smile. His cousins had often asked him to draw their likeness, but his aunt and uncle saw it as idle time, so he saved it for after chores or dinner—if you could even call it that. They could only afford to divide a block of cheese and a loaf of bread between them, and Galen was always the last to receive the scraps; it’s what eventually drove him to the village square that final day before he fled their home, hoping to find something that’d been tossed away so he could eat. He’d made a poor decision and was now paying for it.
At least now they had one less mouth to feed.
That brought him back to the situation at hand. “I cannot repay you for any of—”
“That will be a conversation for Madam Langley,” Sparrow said. “For now, focus on getting well.”
“Thank you.” Galen’s eyes drifted closed.
A moment later, he felt their cautious hands unfolding the sheet and gently probing his injuries again, and when a warm hand cupped his jaw, his eyes flew open. It was Azriel, who might’ve been feeling braver about his work, or possibly wanted to help direct the twins. Something pleasantly floral drifted toward his nose, reminiscent of the field of wildflowers on the outskirts of his village. And as Azriel turned his head side to side to assess his bruised face, Galen studied the attractive man, wondering why the blooming, sunny scent emanating from him seemed so contrary to his low-spirited, hesitant aura.
