Elliot leaned past Quentin, flipping a switch, and a set of yellow-tinted lights came on overhead. All three of them turned toward me and gasped, almost in unison. It would have been funny if I hadn’t been so damned tired.

“Toby?” Connor whispered.

“That would be me,” I said, wiping the water off my cheek. “In the flesh, as it were.”

“You look . . .”

“I know.” My hair was plastered to my head. My hands were black with ash. “But I’m still here.”

Elliot glanced at the mess covering the floor. “I’m not going to ask.”

“Probably for the best,” I said. Quentin had pushed past the other two and was approaching, almost timidly. I turned to him, mustering a faint smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replied. “Are you okay?”

“I’m alive. That’s all I hoped for.” He still looked profoundly uncomfortable. I sighed. “Look, I’d hug you, but I’d get blood all over you.”

“I don’t care,” he said, and threw his arms around my neck. I slung my right arm around him, letting my unwounded hand rest on his shoulder. Connor followed his lead, hugging me from the other side, and for a moment, the three of us just stood there, holding on to one another.

It was Elliot who broke the silence, saying uncomfortably, “This is . . . rather untidy. May I clean you?”

I pulled away from Quentin and Connor enough to look down at myself. Blood, ash, and streaks of muck stained my clothes and Tybalt’s jacket. I was sure my hair looked like a dead animal stapled to my head. Still. Holding up my hand, I asked, “Is it safe when I’m still bleeding?”

“. . . no,” Elliot said, looking displeased. “We’ll have to get Gordan to look at that.” He crossed to the kitchen area, opening a cabinet and pulling out a clean towel, which he tossed toward us.

Connor caught it, pressing it into my uninjured hand. “Find her fast, please,” he said, expression worried. “I don’t like the way her hand looks.”

“The way it . . . right.” I hadn’t really looked at my hand since cutting it. I’d been a little busy. “Guys, let go.”

They stepped back, and I looked down, assessing the damage. I had all my fingers, and I could move them, if I was willing to cope with the pain: that was where the good stuff ended. My palm was split from the wrist to the base of the index finger, and when my fingers flexed, I thought I saw bone. Changelings heal fast and thoroughly when the wounds aren’t made with iron; my hand would recover if I had it taken care of. It still looked pretty bad.

Starting to feel faintly nauseated, I said, “Getting Gordan in here might be a good idea.”