Thoughts of my dad surfaced, the cold hospital room and his thin, pale hand in mine as he fought for breath, his body not as strong as his will. Then Peter as he gasped his last, his body shuddering in my arms as it finally gave up and freed his soul. Tears pricked and a familiar grief stained my thoughts, and I knew I’d done the same with Kisten, too, though I didn’t remember it. Damn it back to the Turn. “Once or twice,” I said.

His eyes met mine, riveting in their gleam. “I won’t apologize for being selfish.”

“I’m not worried about that.” I really wanted to know why he’d asked me here if he didn’t want to tell me anything. No, I thought abruptly, feeling my face lose all expression. It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell me something but that he promised Trent he wouldn’t.

Stiffening on the cool leather chair, I leaned forward. Quen sharpened the focus of his gaze, as if he recognized I’d figured it out. Fully aware of Dr. Anders behind me, I mouthed, “What is it?”

But Quen only smiled. “You’re thinking,” he said, almost breathing it. “Good.” His smile softened his pained features, making him look almost fatherly. “I can’t. I promised my Sa’han,” he said, and I pushed myself into the back of the chair, disgusted and feeling the bump of my bag behind me. Stupid elf morals. He could kill a person, but he couldn’t break his word.

“I have to ask the right question?” I said, and he shook his head.

“There is no question. There is only what you see.”

Oh, God. Wise-old-man crap. I hated it when they did that. But I tensed when Quen’s breathing became labored over the sound of the faint music. My pulse quickened, and I looked at the hospital equipment, silent and dark. “You need to be quiet for a while,” I said, agitated. “You’re wasting your strength.”

A shadow against the gray of the sheets, Quen held himself still, concentrating on keeping his lungs moving. “Thanks for coming,” he said, his gravelly voice thin. “I probably won’t last long, and I appreciate you dealing with Trenton trying to cope afterward. He’s having a hard…time.”

“No problem.” I reached out and felt his forehead. It was hot, but I wasn’t going to offer him the sippy-straw cup on the table unless he asked. He had his pride. His pox scars stood out, and I did take the antiseptic wipe that Dr. Anders silently gave me, dabbing his forehead and neck until he scowled.

“Rachel,” he said, pushing my hand away, “since you’re here, I want to ask you a favor.”