I went reluctantly, glad I was holding onto him. The all-right-but-shaky part of the feeling was going away, and I was beginning to crash big-time. My head felt like a pumpkin balanced on the toothin stem of my neck, my arms and legs kept doing weird little shaking-away things, and dark little

speckles started dancing around the edges of my vision.

“Christophe?”

He got me out through the door, closed it quietly. Braced me, and started heading across the infirmary, my feet dragging against the stone floor. “What?”

I wanted to tell him I needed to see Ash, too. I wanted to tell him I was going to start looking for

Graves, since we had time now, right? I also wanted to ask him to sit down and explain Anna from

the beginning. I wanted—no, I needed to know how she ended up like this.

But the warm spot in the middle of my stomach was shrinking steadily. The hurts had mostly gone

away, but I was weak as a newborn kitten. I felt like one, too—blind and making little noises. I was

still trying to ask him all the questions I so desperately needed answers to when he shushed me gently and half-carried me away.

Jealousy

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

White light, smell of lemon polish, dust, fresh air. And baking apple pie. Little slivers of sunlight

peeked under my eyelids.

But I couldn’t just lie there. I had things to do. So when I turned over and groaned, opening my eyes

slightly for the umpteenth time, I found myself staring at the plaster ceiling. Diamonds and roses

stood out in sharp relief. My eyes were grainy, so I blinked and rubbed at them. My arms didn’t

hurt, and neither did my face.

I felt muzzy-headed, sure, but still pretty good. I yawned and sat up, found out I was in Christophe’s

sweater and my panties, and made a mental note to stop waking up minus some of my clothes. My

jeans, crusted with blood and other stuff, lay on the floor next to the bed with my socks.

The room was still the same. Sunlight flooding in through skylights and the window, the vanity

dresser glowing, every inch of it spic-and-span. The books on the stripped-pine shelves regarded

me, their spines blank closed faces. Had my mother ever sat here, clutching the covers and rubbing

at her eyes, and wondered what the hell to do next?

I could smell Christophe, but he was nowhere in sight. The sweater covered most everything, so I

gingerly slid my bare legs out of bed. It was neither too warm nor too cold, the air just perfect for

rolling out of bed on a lazy Saturday morning before you stumble down to the caf and get something to eat. Then it would be time to attend a couple of classes, but when you were free, you could