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“Your brother is fine,” says Tessa, and her voice is careful. Again, she’s seen through me. “He had a coughing fit after you left, but he doesn’t—”
I push off the wall. “He what?”
“He’s fine. No fever. I gave him some tea with honey and vallis lilies.” Her hand closes on my forearm and gives a gentle squeeze. “He’s fine.”
Something about her touch forces me still. My breathing slows fractionally.
Her eyes are piercing, though, and I worry she’s going to ask what I’ve done. She’ll ask, and I’ll tell her, and I’ll destroy any remaining flickers of . . . ?whatever is between us.
I was ready to kneel at my brother’s feet and beg for release.
I’m ready to kneel at Tessa’s and beg forgiveness.
She slides her hand down my forearm and laces her fingers with mine. She doesn’t flinch at the blood. My chest tightens at the thought of her touching it.
Please, I think. Please don’t ask.
Please don’t hate me anymore.
I hate myself enough.
I start to pull away, to draw back into the dark and shadows. Her grip on my hand forces me still.
“Walk with me?” she says.
I inhale to refuse. I want to sit in the dark and pray for the earth to swallow me whole.
Instead, I nod. She leads and I follow, and we step out of the crumbling bloodstained room and into the bright lights of the Royal Sector.
