“I wish I could do something,” Dineas says, his frustration plain in his voice. “But I can’t.”

“It’s all right,” I say. “You’ve already done more than you know.”

For a moment, we stand facing each other. I watch his chest rise and fall, and I’m aware of him, the smell of leather and root soap on his skin, the heat radiating off his arms.

A jolt of realization hits me. I back away, perhaps a little too quickly, because his eyes widen slightly.

I smile, trying to smooth over the moment. “Thank you, Dineas. You’re a good friend.”

I’m not sure if I imagine the flash of disappointment in his eyes. “Of course,” he says. “As you are to me.”

My hands feel awkward at my side, and I can’t quite look him in the eye. I clear my throat. “We haven’t done your treatment yet today. Shall we try again?”

He’s slow to respond, but finally he nods. “Yes. Yes, we should.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

I’m getting more used to the transition now, that feeling of memories washing back, realizing I’m more than what I thought, much more. That waterfall of understanding that paints my recent days in a different light.

As usual, the first moments overwhelm me. All I can do is hold my head in my hands as the fragments of my life come together. I see Zivah sitting in the corner, her hands in her lap and her face tight with strain, but it’s one image among a thousand. Only after the flood slows down can I finally look at her.

“Eventful day,” I say.

She sweeps up her skirts and walks to the table. “Yes, it was.” I can’t tell if she’s avoiding my eyes on purpose, or if she’s holding herself more stiffly than usual. She’s probably embarrassed by her show of emotion this morning. I do feel bad for her, and I suppose it’s good that my other self cared enough to comfort her.

I think back to the conversation, and my thoughts linger over the last few moments. The tense silence, her backing away. You’re a good friend, Dineas. A slight sting of rejection still lingers.

Wait, were we…? No, I’m just imagining things. This is Zivah. Anything between us would just be too bizarre.

“Are the crows around? I have things to report.”

She puts on gloves, fetches me a pen and ink, and opens a window to whistle for the crows. As I watch her cross the room, I realize that I don’t notice her rosemarks nearly as much as I used to. Instead, I notice how large her eyes are, and the bow of her mouth. Gods, my mind is more muddled from the potion than I realized.