“How did you get away?”

“I killed him … Will I live?”

Didn’t answer. Just replaced the towel, said, “You have deep cuts on your arms and legs.” She began to wash and dress the wounds. The warmth stung and comforted all at once. The smell of piss had faded. There was an antiseptic feel to the air.

“Turn over now,” she said. “I need to check your back.”

With a groan, he managed that delicate maneuver. Ancient, creaky, feather-weak.

“You have more cuts,” she announced after a second. Her voice not quite as even. Not quite as under control. She’d stopped working. Knew she was staring at him.

“Is it that bad?”

“I’ve seen worse,” she managed.

“Can’t even feel it,” Finch said. Shock? Infection? Some last blessing from Shriek?

She worked on him for long minutes. Finally, had him sit up.

Wrapped bandages around his ribs. Her head next to his. Her arms stretched around him.

Slowly reached out to her. Wrapped his arms around her. Though it hurt him.

Rathven held him. Held him like a friend. Solid. Comforting.

“Why are you doing this for me, Rathven?”

“You saved my life.”

“I put you in danger.”

“We both did.”

“I have to tell you something,” he said.

“Whatever you need,” she said.

Understood that she might give him more than he had any right to expect.

It was hard. Halting. But after he began, it was hard to stop. He told her everything. All of it. Leaving nothing out. Sparing no one, least of all himself. As if truly confessing. Needing it out of him.

He told her about the Lady in Blue. About how he’d left Stark. Wyte’s death. About Bliss. The Partial. How Shriek had come out of him. About Sintra. Heard his voice. Detached, normal. Wondered how it sounded to her. Rational? Insane?

She said nothing. Just held him. Listened. When he was done, she gave him water. Made him eat a little. Then gently pushed him back onto the cot. Whispered that she would bring him clean clothes soon.

He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

SUNDAY

Fading in and out of consciousness. Restless and exhausted. A dryness to his skin. An attenuated feeling. The sense that he could blow away in the wind. Did it come from Shriek? From having given part of himself away? He didn’t know.

Lying on a cot or sitting in a chair seemed like a kind of sloth. Also a kind of gnawing ache that was half for Sintra and half, perversely, for what the Lady in Blue had shown him. The sentimental thought that he had never had a chance to tell Wyte about any of it.