“What is it?” asked Laila.

Séverin winced as he pushed himself up and flashed a weak smile.

“I haven’t felt like this in a long time.”

“I hardly believe that,” said Laila tightly. “How many near-death traps have you escaped? You should be accustomed to the feeling by now.”

“That’s not what I’m feeling.”

“Then what?”

She had not moved from her spot by the door, and though it hurt that she was instantly prepared to bolt, he knew he deserved it. He touched the bandage at his side, breathing deeply.

“Taken care of,” he said.

“No one’s ever cared for you?” she asked mockingly. “Are you saying that all the times I’ve tried to pull you back from grief, or Hypnos tried to be there for you, or Enrique and Zofia—”

“This is different,” said Séverin.

As the room brightened, he recognized the furious color in her cheeks and the hard set to her mouth. Séverin felt something unhinge inside him, a door swinging open that he’d long kept shut. The things he had no desire to say spun out of him.

“All those things you have done for me, which I so ungratefully cast aside, shame me. And yes, those were acts of compassion. But this is different. I was bleeding in the dark, and you brought me somewhere safe. When I could not think for myself or act for myself”—he looked into her swan-dark eyes—“you protected me.”

The fury abated in her eyes, but the hard set to her mouth remained.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” she said. “We’ve been taking turns checking your bandages. I thought you would be unconscious. If you’d prefer someone else—”

“Why would I prefer someone else’s touch to yours?”

Her eyes widened. Color flooded her cheeks, and his panic ebbed away. Something else seeped in.

Laila had changed out of her costume from the Carnevale, and into a blue dressing gown embroidered with a hundred sequins at the hem so that it looked like she was a woman of the waters, crafted from moonlight hitting the sea. Belatedly, he realized he was staring.

Laila scowled, looked down at her dress and sighed. “We trusted Hypnos with procuring garments and food. I told him to buy something ‘subtle.’”

“You look beautiful,” said Séverin.

“Don’t,” said Laila tiredly.

She sat beside him, and the faint scent of sugar and rose water drifted through his senses. He lifted his arms. Laila did not look at him as she worked with cold efficiency, making quick work of his bandages and drawing out a clean set. Every brush of her fingers felt like fire inside him, and perhaps that was what woke up some corner of his memory. He remembered the sudden, crushing pressure against his skull … the stench of the lagoon water sloshing up the sides of the gondola, dampening his pant leg. The world dissolving to black until he heard her voice.

“If you die, I can’t stay mad at you, Majnun, and if I can’t at least be angry with you, I’ll break.”