It wasn’t until they alighted on the ground floor that she expelled the stale air from her lungs. He still walked determinedly ahead of her, through spears of wan sunlight that painted his black hair in shades of indigo. For all his wounded pride, Hal moved like a man made of glass, his every step rigid and delicate. He kept his face utterly blank, as if there were nothing at all wrong with him. Typical soldier. But Wren knew better. With his extensive organ damage, even this small exertion must have been excruciating.

She followed him into the morning room—and heard him trip before she saw it.

His foot scuffed the floor, as loud as a gunshot in the late evening gloom. Then he stumbled forward, tearing a gasp from Wren’s throat. Before she could spring for him, Hal caught himself on the back of an armchair.

Wren approached him, uncertain whether to accost him with are you alright? or what were you thinking? first. He’d begun to trust her, so what had changed? Was it so terrible to need someone else? Was kindness such a horrible burden to endure?

“I hope you’re pleased with yourself.” Wren took him by the shoulders and all but shoved him into the chair. “Need I remind you that you asked for my help? I understand you’re allergic to compassion, but you have to let me try.”

Hal bowed his head, his bed-mussed hair falling over his eyes. “Alright.”

Wren placed a hand on her hip. “Alright?”

“You’re right. I do need your help.” A concession, at last—not that he looked in any condition to resist her anymore.

“Good.” Wren pinched the bridge of her nose, suddenly exhausted herself. “Rest for a few minutes, and then we’ll go back.”

But first, the sketches.

As soon as Hal let his eyes fall closed, Wren went to the writing desk and unlatched the drawer. It slid out with a squeal on its unoiled tracks.

“What’re you doing?” Hal asked.

“Nothing that concerns you.” Wren turned on her heel to face him. “Mind your business.”

He blinked at her, clearly perplexed. “Pardon my intrusion.”

Wren huffed. “I just … left something in the drawer. Sometimes I work down here. It’s a nicer view than in my room.”

While he didn’t look at all convinced, he didn’t ask her any more questions. Wren lifted the sheaf of papers out of the drawer and laid them on the desk. As soon as she spread them out, she was struck by their meticulous detail. Each page contained a sketch of a specific part of the body and included a map of the fola, composed in a tracery of black and silver ink.