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A flush replaces the sickly shade. “I didn’t want to risk Remone answering. He seems rather jealous of you.”
“And getting caught at my window would have been so much better.” I shake my head. “Between that and climbing up here in the middle of the night, this must be important.”
“Important, yes,” he says. “But also… personal.” Simontakes my left hand in his and turns it over, pausing to study a number of small cuts. “What happened to your fingers?”
“Handling tiny pieces of glass. Repairing the windows of the Sanctum model was my punishment for what happened today.” I don’t want to discuss it, though. “What happened toyourhand?”
Simon frowns at the two oozing scratches from the back of his knuckles to his wrist. “Not sure. Maybe climbing in the window.”
“They’re like the ones on your neck the other night,” I say. “Except there were three.”
Simon reaches for his throat, though it’s healed. “Juliane did that. Surely you’ve noticed she’s not well, though maybe not in what way.”
“She told me of her mother’s illness,” I admit. “And that she thinks the same thing is happening to her.”
“It is.”
“How do you know that?”
In my vivid sight, the brown flaw in Simon’s eye appears like strands of yarn bunched within a circle of blue ones. “Because I’ve seen it,” he says quietly. “All my life.”
“In Mesanus,” I breathe.
“Yes.” He tilts his head to the side. “You know of it?”
“A little. Mother Agnes said there’s a shrine to a Holy One who cures sickness of the mind, and that the people there often open their own homes to care for those who are ill.”
“Did she tell you why that’s necessary?” The tremble of his chin leaks into his voice. “That many pilgrims are abandoned to the mercy of strangers by their own flesh and blood when their miracle doesn’t come?”
I pull his scratched hand into my lap, curling my fingers around his. “Did someone leave you there?” I ask softly.
Simon nods numbly. “My mother. Or rather, she abandoned my father and I refused to. So she just left me there, her only son.” His mouth twists up like he’s in pain. “I was eight.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your pity,” says Simon abruptly. “I just want… to explain.” He keeps his eyes low. “A family took us in, but I couldn’t stand the idea of living off charity when there was nothing wrong with me yet.”
Yet?
He takes a deep breath. “Mesanus is mostly a fishing village, where people have little need for schooling. Since I was one of the few who could read and write, I found employment recording notes for physicians.” Simon smiles ironically. “I was never as good a scribe as Juliane, of course.”
I squeeze his hand. “No one is.”
Simon’s expression fades to blankness again as he continues. “When I was fourteen, I was hired by Altum Ferris, who studied the violently insane. The pay was enough for me to support my father in a small home of our own.” To my dismay, he pulls his hand from mine and tucks his forearms under his legs, rocking himself like Juliane does. “I sat through countless hours of people describing the vilest impulses and actions, often involving children.” He squeezes his eyes tight as tears glitter in his blond lashes. “The killer we’re chasing is nothing compared to what else I’ve seen, what I’ve heard. It was hard to believe they were human.” He shakes his head as though trying to rid himself of terrible thoughts. “After a while, you can’t help wondering if you’re capable of the same thing.”
“Simon,” I say firmly. “You’re not insane.”
Now he looks at me. “That’s just it, Cat. Most of them knew exactly what they were doing, and that it was wrong. Theyweren’t insane, not in a way that separates someone from reality and deserves pity, not like…”
“Like Juliane?”
“I was going to say my father, but yes. She’s very much like he was in the beginning.”
I swallow. “Was he dangerous?”
What I really want to know is, is she?
Simon shakes his head. “He was more of a risk to himself. Once he tried to bore a hole into his head, attempting to let the bad thoughts out.” Simon’s hand goes to his neck again. “Juliane scratched me when I stopped her from jumping out of her window. She was convinced she could fly. I don’t know if that was her illness or theskoniain the tea I’d given her.”
