But this didn’t seem like Noriago. He’d be more likely to snatch Yenni than anything. Did he even know how to attack with magical darts? Weysh certainly had no idea what spell that was. Weysh stood ruminating until Yenni stepped from the bathroom wearing nothing but the nightshirt he’d left behind, which fit her like a gown. The silk clung to her, showing the outline of her body underneath and chasing all thoughts of anything else from his head.

“Erm, ah—”

“Do you know a spell that can heal shallow cuts such as these? I know of a rune, but I cannot use it to heal myself, of course, and I do not have my paint here besides.”

“Ah, no. Sorry, lovely, but healing isn’t exactly my area of expertise. However, I do have a balm against infection. Wait here, I’ll retrieve it from the kitchen.”

She’s injured. He chided himself as he rushed downstairs. Now is not the time. But Byen above did she look tempting in his nightshirt. When he came back upstairs with the container of balm she wasn’t in the hallway. “Yenni?” he called.

“I’m here,” she said from his bedroom. He found her sitting on the edge of his bed, her legs dangling. “I apologize,” she said wearily. “Everything caught up to me at once and I needed to sit down.”

“No need to apologize, my heart,” Weysh said, and went to kneel in front of her. She reached a hand out for the balm.

“It will be more effective if I apply it,” he said. “It’s soft poppy and mimel infused with healing magic to stop the bleeding and well, you know, Law of Self-Preservation and all that.”

She squinted at him. “Truly?”

“Truly. I wouldn’t lie to you about that. But if you’d feel more comfortable putting it on yourself you’re free to do so.”

She watched him a second more. “No,” she said at last. “I trust you. Please apply the balm for me.”

Weysh nodded. “Where?”

She pulled the loose shirt sleeve up her right arm, revealing a red welt on her bicep. Weysh scooped up the balm, feeling the magic of it tingle on his fingers, and spread it on the wound.

“I’pa!” Yenni whispered and sucked in a breath.

“Shhh, I know it burns,” Weysh said soothingly. “But it will help. Now, where else?”

She let the sleeve drop and pulled the neck of the shirt down over her right shoulder. Weysh focused on applying the balm to the small stab wound there while suppressing all other thoughts, especially the strong urge to trail kisses along her collarbone.

He almost sighed in relief when she hitched the shirt back up over her shoulder, until she pulled the hem of the shirt up, revealing her right thigh.

Cursed Movay, why must you torment me!