Amelia could hear running water. A gentle trickle, almost musical.A fountain,her half-awake mind supplied.
With that realization came another: she hurt…everywhere.
As consciousness took hold, so too did the pain.
It illuminated every inch of her, dull and throbbing in some places, spike-sharp in others. She sucked in a breath that left her ribs twinging, and blinked open her eyes to find they were gummy, her vision blurred.
The closest comparison to her current state was the time she’d been forcefully bucked off a pony when she was twelve.
That was when she remembered that shehadfallen, from her drake, and that she’d landed in water.
She remembered the awful, searing pain in her hand, where the emperor had marked her.
Remembered a pale face and slicked-down white hair bobbing above the water in front of her.My lady.
“My lady,” the same voice from her memory said aloud, very close. “You’re awake.” A voice touched with obvious relief—and an obvious accent.
Cassius. The last, most damning and frightening realization of all, and the whole, terrible debacle in Merryweather bowled her over like a runaway hay cart.
Wherever she was, she needed to move, and movenow.
She caught a blurry glimpse of a room filled with strange pink light as she hauled herself upright, and then black spots crowded her vision and she could see nothing.
“Careful, my lady.” Hands—Cassius’s hands—caught her, one curled around her upper arm, the other flat and supportive against her back. “Take it slowly. You’ve been through a shock.”
Been through a shock. She’d had a great-aunt long ago, her father’s aunt, prone to swooning. The moment catastrophe struck—say Amelia came to the supper table wearing dirty riding boots—she would clutch at her chest, and sway in her seat, and someone would rush to fetch the smelling salts, or fan her with a napkin.
She loathed the idea of putting on such a performance, no matter how badly her body ached, and her head spun, and her stomach rolled like an unhappy sea. So she braced her hands on either side of her hips, felt something soft and giving beneath her, a cushion of some sort, the silk of its cover slick on her palms. She blinked furiously, until her vision began to clear. Though she lacked the immediate strength to bat Cassius away from her, she tightened the screaming muscles in her midsection so she could hold herself up without his support.
His hand remained on her back, however. Lightly, carefully, but she was keenly aware of its presence.
His other hand appeared in front of her, holding what, after another moment’s blinking, proved to be a cup. “It’s water,” he explained.
She longed to knock it from his grasp. A petty, but satisfying denial of further comfort. But, gods, she wasthirsty.
“Water and what else?” she gritted out through a dry throat.
“Only water.” The softness in his tone set her teeth on edge, but she reached, shaky and clumsy, to take the cup.
Water slopped over the edge, and onto her breeches, cold and unwelcome. Cassius pressed a single fingertip to the bottom of the cup, helped her, and she managed to put the rim to her lips. The water was cool, and clean-tasting, nothing like the warm, canteen-flavored creek water she’d been swigging on campaign, and after the first sip, she drained the cup in greedy gulps.
He made an aborted noise in his throat she thought meant he wanted to advise caution once more, but refrained. He took the cup from her when she was finished. “More?”
She nodded, and licked a stray drop off her lip.
“Very well,” he murmured, and withdrew, finally; stood.
Amelia rubbed the last bit of crust from her eyes and watched him cross the room toward a sideboard laden with cups, decanters, goblets, and bottles. He selected a silver pitcher, frosted with condensation, and refilled the cup.
While his back was to her, she took the chance to survey her surroundings.
The room was spacious, and sumptuous. Broad flagstone floors covered in layers of rugs so plush they looked as though no one had ever walked across them. She sat on the edge of an ornate chaise lounge covered in deep red silk cushions. Similar cushions adorned a bevy of chairs, and a tufted leather sofa. The same red silk had been used for the pillows and coverlet on the wide bed that sat perched on a dais off to her left. There was a dining table of carved wood, ringed by eight chairs, lined down the center by iron and silver candlesticks; the candles in them were white, and half-melted, long strings of rehardened wax dripping off their ledges.
Close at hand there were small tables scattered with books, and vases of fresh, too-fragrant flowers. Beyond, a series of tall, arched windows that went all the way down to the floor, their shutters and red drapes thrown back to allow in the soft pink and orange light of sunset. Through the openings, she saw a flagstone courtyard, and a marble balustrade. A fountain, three-tiered, the source of the musical spill of running water.
A bluebird, plumage still dull thanks to the earliness of the season, landed on the edge of the fountain and ducked his head to drink. Three quick sips. Then alighted with a flutter of wings and a chirping call.
In her periphery, she saw Cassius turn from the table, and hesitate, cup held in both hands, one pale thumb tapping against the side of it as he regarded her.
