When he let go of my wrist, I sat back on the bed. Too fast. Warden guided me to the pillows. “Slowly.”

He walked to the bathroom, strong again already. When he returned, he was carrying a glass of cold water. He slid an arm under my back and lifted me into a sitting position, holding me in the crook of his elbow. I drank. It had been sweetened.

“Does Nashira know about this?” I said.

His expression darkened.

“She may question you about my absences. And my injuries,” he said.

“So she doesn’t know.”

No reply. He propped me up on some heavy velvet cushions, making sure my head was supported. The nausea was passing, but my wrist still dripped blood. Seeing it, Warden reached for the nightstand and procured a roll of gauze. My gauze. I recognized the band I’d secured it with. He must have taken it from my backpack. It made me cold to think of it in his hands. It reminded me of the missing pamphlet. Did he have it? Had he read it?

He took my wrist. His massive, gloved hands were gentle, covering the cut in sterile white. His way of thanking me, I supposed. Once the blood had stopped seeping through the gauze, he fixed the dressing with a pin and laid my arm across my chest. I kept my eyes on his face.

“It seems we are at a stalemate,” he said. “You have a talent for finding me in delicate situations. I would expect you to take pleasure in my times of weakness, yet you give me your blood. You clean my wounds. What is your motive?”

“I might need a favor. And I don’t like to watch things die. I’m not like you.”

“You judge too easily.”

“You watched while she killed him.” I should have been afraid to say these words, but I didn’t give a damn. “You watched. You must have known what she was going to do.”

Warden was unresponsive. I turned away from him.

“Perhaps I am a whited sepulchre,” he started.

“A what?”

“A hypocrite. I rather like the turn of phrase,” he said. “Perhaps you think me evil, but I do keep my word. Do you keep yours?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Tonight’s events must never leave this room. I wish to know if you will keep them secret.”

“Why should I?”

“Because it would not help you to tell it.”

“It would get rid of you.”

I thought his eyes changed.

“Yes. It would get rid of me,” he said, “but your life would not improve. If you were not thrown onto the streets, you might be given another keeper, and not all of them are as liberal as I am. By rights I should have beaten you to death for some of the things you have said to me over the past few days. But I understand your value. Others will not.”