Wren slung her medical bag over her shoulder and crossed the hall to the sickroom. With every step, the sound of labored breathing grew louder. Her magic bristled again, tingling and hot in her fingertips. She’d never been able to resist its yearning to heal, but this was a new kind of hunger. Whatever illness the man had, it had raged for too long. Another few days untreated would likely kill him. The door creaked as she pushed it open inch by inch.

“Hello? Henry?” she called, hoping not to startle him. “I’m the healer Lord Lowry sent for.”

There was no answer.

A single candle, melted down to a puddle, burned in the darkness, but shadows stubbornly clung in the corners like smoke stains. A four-poster bed took up nearly the entire room, its white canopy closed. It gave Wren the impression of a long-abandoned room, all the furniture cloaked and hidden. A wet, barking cough sounded from behind the canopy.

Wren sat in the chair beside the sickbed and drew back the curtain. A man lay tangled in the sheets and propped up by pillows. Although exhaustion made her sluggish, she collected magic in her palm and laid it on his chest to assess the damage. What could have decimated a household in weeks?

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Bit by bit, shadows gave shape to his face. Black hair and a fawn complexion. Long, imperious features. An almost pouting mouth. This was not the dignified butler she’d imagined. He was just a sullen boy. Just a—

Wren stifled a gasp and snatched her hand away.

This was no boy, no common servant.

Sleeping fitfully in the sickbed was Hal Cavendish.

CHAPTER NINE

Although years had passed since their last encounter, he was unmistakable. It was him. It was Hal. He was supposed to be missing.

But here he was, laid low in a canopied bed. Wren stood abruptly, and the scrape of the chair on the floorboards stirred him awake. With a groan, his eyes peeled open. Wren’s mind blackened in terror, the same color as his eyes. She fixed her gaze on his chest to avoid meeting his. Even one second, one glance, would be enough to stop her heart.

No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. Why, of all places, was he here?

He was the Reaper of Vesria. He was a monster, above mortal things like sickness. Yet he languished here the same as any flesh and blood being with a fever. It was almost pathetic, the way he shivered.

As fear solidified into rage, a thought slid effortlessly into her head: Kill him.