The sleeve came off entirely, and the woman paused, her head tilted. She ran a fingertip across the skin near the shoulder, and Margot knew she was tracing one of the scars. “Is this from…?”

Kant sounded only resigned when he replied, “Yes.”

“You lied to me,” Margot tried to say, but her tongue felt like it belonged to someone else. She let her eyes close again and was swallowed by the darkness.

Her dreams were fleeting and strange as distorted images flowed through before degrading into nothing.

When she next opened her eyes, the light had changed. Blinds had been drawn across the room’s two windows, but sneaking lines of hazy gray bled through, telling her morning had, at last, arrived.

Kant still sat where she’d last seen him, head down. Andrew was next to him, his arms folded awkwardly around himself as he slept, leaned against Kant’s shoulder. Someone had draped a blanket over him.

Margot shifted slightly. She’d expected the webbing of bruises and cuts to set her on fire again, but they were only a dull, distant ache. Her mind felt foggy. More than she could expect from sleep.

Painkillers?

She tried to move her injured arm, but it felt strangely heavy. A blanket covered her. She gingerly pulled her arm out from underneath. A cast had been applied, running from her wrist to just below her elbow, a layer of unexpectedly cheerful blue covering the stiff white structure.

“Morning, Margot.” Kant had heard her move. He lifted his head, and his eyes were heavy and tinged with red.

Margot ran her tongue across chapped lips and tasted blood. She sat with some effort, using her elbows to leverage herself up, and put her back to a wall. She’d been placed on a table; layers of blankets had been hastily thrown beneath her to create some padding. A box nearby was filled with papers and equipment she couldn’t name, presumably cast off the table to make room for her.

The room looked like it might have been a work area. Shelves ran along the wall above her, and more crates were arranged in the corners, packed with scrap metal.

A sink was set into a counter to Margot’s left, and the wiry woman she’d seen earlier that night stood there, washing her tools before packing them away. She was small and bone thin, but her movements were all dexterously quick as her long fingers tucked the supplies into her kit. Her tightly bound black hair was shot through with rivers of gray. She sent Margot a quick, searching look, the whites of her eyes strikingly bright against her dark skin, then returned to the task at hand.

“This is Dr. Maynard.” Kant’s voice seemed raspier than normal, and Margot wondered if he’d slept at all the previous night. “She’s a vet. She treats the Gallows Hill family.”