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She’d been barely aware of the two in the room—brother and sister, she’d finally realized. Not a couple, as she’d first assumed. It was an understandable mistake, considering that she herself had never seen that sort of easy affection between siblings before. Not in her own family, at least.
There had been no time for self-pity, though. No time to think of Paolo, his hatred or his fear. Instead, Viola had thrown herself into the work of saving her friend, pressing all of her affinity, all that she was, into Jianyu’s wound. She’d used her magic as it had always been intended to be used. For life, not death.
Viola was not—had never been—a gentle creature, but in this work, she was careful and soft. In this work, she sank herself more completely than perhaps ever before, until she and her affinity had become one. Until she’d felt overheated, slick with sweat from the exertion. Until the shame she’d carried for so long seemed to evaporate in the warmth building within her.
But it wasn’t enough.
No matter how much of her affinity she’d channeled into Jianyu, his wound would not be healed. The flesh remained stubbornly insistent, fighting against her magic. She had done what she could, knitting together the tissue and bone, only to have them unravel again and again. So she’d changed direction and worked on the blood itself, urged it on until all that had been lost was replenished. Blood still seeped from the wound, but at least Jianyu was no longer in immediate danger of death. It had taken every bit of her strength.
“You said you could help him,” Cela said again, her voice as wild as the fear in her eyes, as the panic Viola felt already churning within herself.
Viola looked up at Cela, accepting her judgment.
“He told us that you could save him,” Cela demanded.
Viola was shaking her head, because she couldn’t explain it. She didn’t have words to counter the distrust in Cela’s expression—distrust that she had more than earned.
Cela took a step toward Viola. “I don’t know what you’re playing at—”
Abel pulled his sister back, his hands steady on her shoulder. “I think what my sister is trying to say is that he doesn’t look any better.”
Viola glanced back at the bed, where Jianyu remained unmoving. His breathing looked steadier now, though, his color less faded. “He is better,” she said softly.
“But not completely,” Cela countered.
She turned back to them. “No. The wound wouldn’t be healed.” She tried to explain how her affinity worked, how she’d tried to knit the wound together and how it had resisted her.
“How is that possible?” Cela asked, her voice fraying a little at the edges. “You made the wound. Your knife did this. You should be able to fix it.”
“Cela…” Abel’s voice was a warning. He looked distinctly uneasy as he pulled his sister back gently.
Because he was afraid of her. Viola had given him a good enough reason to be.
Viola turned back to Jianyu and pulled herself to unsteady feet. She could feel their frustration, their suspicions, and she could not blame them. Placing Jianyu’s hands back across his abdomen, she tucked the blankets around him gently.
The movement must have disturbed him, because his eyes fluttered open suddenly. Unfocused, they stared toward the ceiling until she leaned over him, hope caught in her throat, and then he looked at her.
Jianyu tried to speak, but his voice was a scuffed thing, rough and barely there. His brows pulled together, ever so slightly, but Viola couldn’t tell if it was confusion or anger or pain that knitted them.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, hating the catch in her own throat and the way her eyes burned with tears. “I can’t—” His mouth moved a little, but she shook her head. “You must rest,” she said, pulling her hand back. She was suddenly afraid to touch him, because touching him meant facing her own failure.
His eyes were on her, still glassy and unfocused, when another unintelligible husk of a whisper came out. But she was already backing away.
Cela had gone to Jianyu’s side and was already leaning over the bed and speaking in urgent, hushed tones as she held his hand. But Jianyu’s eyes were following Viola.
“You can’t just up and leave,” Abel said.
Viola met his gaze and wondered what she would do if he tried to stop her.
“Vee—” Jianyu’s mouth formed the first syllable of her name. From across the room, his eyes met hers, and she knew that he saw her standing there. Knew that he understood what she had done, and what she had failed to do.
She should have stepped toward him. She should have tried again, but Viola felt the weight of Cela’s judgment and the unease in Abel’s posture. She felt their distrust heavy in the room and knew that there was nothing more she could do for Jianyu, so she turned and she ran.
Outside, the early-summer heat was already starting to make the city air feel too close and too heavy, but Viola barely felt it. She was already overheated and chilled all at once, and the shift beneath her skirts was damp with her own sweat. She turned to look around the neighborhood, trying to figure out where she was in the city. She knew which direction she needed to go. South. Toward the Bowery.
THE BULLDOGGER
1904—Denver
