“I don’t like hospitals,” he said shortly. “Matalina? Why don’t I do the interior stitching and you close the skin? I’m sure your work is more even than mine.” He smiled ruefully. “I’d wager Rachel would appreciate the smaller scar.”

“It helps to be an inch from the wound,” Matalina said, clearly pleased to have been asked.

Keasley swabbed my neck with a cold gel. I studied the ceiling as he took a pair of scissors and trimmed what I assumed were ragged edges. Making a satisfied noise, he chose a needle and thread. There was a pressure on my neck followed by a tug, and I took a deep breath. My eyes flicked to Ivy as she came in and bent close over me, almost blocking Keasley’s light.

“What about that one?” she said, pointing. “Shouldn’t you stitch that first?” she said. “It’s bleeding the most.”

“No,” he said, making another stitch. “Get another pot of water boiling, will you?”

“Four pots of water?” she questioned.

“If you would,” he drawled. Keasley continued stitching, and I counted the tugs, my gaze on the clock. The chocolate wasn’t sitting as well as I would have liked. I hadn’t been stitched since my ex–best friend had hidden in my school locker pretending to be a werefox. The day had ended with us both being expelled.

Ivy hesitated, then scooped up the wet towels and took them into the kitchen. The water ran, and another cry followed by a muffled thump came from my shower. “Will you stop doing that!” came an annoyed shout, and I couldn’t help my smirk. All too soon Ivy was back peering over Keasley’s shoulder.

“That stitch doesn’t look tight,” she said.

I shifted uncomfortably as Keasley’s wrinkled brow furrowed. I liked him, and Ivy was being a bloody nuisance. “Ivy,” he murmured, “why don’t you do a perimeter check?”

“Jenks is outside. We’re fine.”

Keasley’s jaw clenched, the folds of skin on his jaw bunching. He slowly pulled the green thread tight, his eyes on his work. “He might need help,” he said.

Ivy straightened with her arms crossed and black hazing her eyes. “I doubt that.”

Matalina’s wings blurred to nothing as Ivy bent close, blocking Keasley’s light.

“Go away,” Keasley said softly, not moving. “You’re hovering.”

Ivy pulled back, her mouth opening in what looked like shock. Her wide eyes went to mine, and I smiled in an apologetic agreement. Stiffening, she spun round. Her boots clacked on the wood floor in the hallway and into the sanctuary. I winced as the loud boom of the front door reverberated through the church.

“Sorry,” I said, feeling someone ought to apologize.

Keasley stretched his back painfully. “She’s worried about you and doesn’t know how to show it without biting you. Either that or she doesn’t like being out of control.”

“She’s not the only one,” I said. “I’m starting to feel like a failure.”

“Failure?” he breathed. “How do you stir that?”

“Look at me,” I said sharply. “I’m a wreck. I’ve lost so much blood I can’t stand up. I haven’t done anything by myself since I left the I.S. except get caught by Trent and made into rat chow.” I didn’t feel much like a runner anymore. Dad would be disappointed, I thought. I should have stayed where I was, safe, secure, and bored out of my mind.