Together, we drag Harper’s limp body onto the sloped, rocky bank. I’m already kneeling at her side, knees digging into sharp rocks, hands clutching her pale, waxy face. I give her a rough shake. No response. I slap her once, twice. Nothing.
“There’s no point.”
“Hush.” Her sternum, the plate of hard bone, bows beneath my weight. I once watched the physician revive a man by pressing onhis chest. I give two hearty pumps, and her head flops with the motion. She appears shrunken beneath her dress, the white, knotted cord squeezing her waist into nothing.
Zephyrus’ soaked boots enter my periphery. “She was under for too long.”
Harper will live, if only so that I can hold this over her head for the rest of her life. I switch to hammering blows against her back. It might dislodge the water in her lungs.
“It won’t work. The paralysis—”
“Let me tell you what I promised this woman on the first day we met.” I do not stop the rhythm. “I was alone, terrified, grieving. She saw my loneliness and took advantage. Tripped me in the middle of the refectory, causing food to splatter the front of my dress. I told her I would never forget her cruelty. And I would never letherforget it either.” She cannot die. It is too sweet a temptation to see her live, and witness her failure when I eventually gain Meirlach for myself. Whether or not Mother Mabel learns of my broken vows, I will have my triumph.
A scream breaks free of my chest. “Breathe—you—wretched—cow!” I slam a fist against her heart.
Harper’s eyes snap open. She stiffens, her head wrenching sideways, water gushing from her mouth. Her fingers scrabble at the rocky shore.
I sit back on my heels, weary to the bone with trembling. When her lungs have emptied, Harper slumps to the ground, hair tangled in her own sick. She squints at me, features twisted with conflicting emotions, as though she understands how near to death she was and yet cannot comprehend the sight of her savior: dripping water, clothes plastered to my skin, color riding high on my face. But—she is alive. It is enough.
“We need to build a fire,” I say, lifting my eyes to Zephyrus. He studies me, dumbfounded. “Is there something we can use for fuel?” When he does not immediately respond, I snap, “Zephyrus.”
His mouth twists, and the motion pulls at the discoloration patching his skin. For whatever reason, it appears to have evened outsomewhat. “There is a sea-nymph village,” he concedes. “It’s not far. But don’t expect a warm welcome.”
“I thought those creatures in the lake were sea-nymphs.”
“Those were naiads—freshwater nymphs. The sea-nymphs are their distant cousins.”
I struggle to keep track of the sheer variety of creatures. Sprites, naiads, dryads, sea-nymphs. What else? “Will we be safe there?” I can no longer feel my fingers or toes. “We need to get warm.”
Harper’s limbs twitch erratically. Grasping her face, I survey her features. Bloodless skin and blue-tinged lips. She stares right through me, the color of her eyes dulled.
And then I realize something else. The grassy path has disappeared.
“The trail.” I look to Zephyrus. “What happened to it?”
His gaze drops to the ground. “Under likely anticipated our arrival a few miles downstream. It did not expect you to jump into the lake.” He quirks an eyebrow at my alarmed expression. “Don’t worry. As long as you two stay close, nothing terrible will befall you.”
“And the village? Is it safe?”
The West Wind’s hesitation concerns me, for he has always acted with unflappable conviction. “That is open to interpretation. Keep your guard up. If something were to happen to me, you would have to find another way out.”
Trusted guides are difficult to come by, but I would not consider Zephyrus one anyway. “We don’t have a choice, unfortunately.” After wringing out my dress, I stand. “Take us to the village.”
Huddled beneath my cloak, I struggle to muffle my heavy breathing as Zephyrus propels us down the River Mur. The dim remains unchanged, altering neither in color nor form. Cupped between my palms, the roselight offers little reprieve from the darkness and even less warmth.
“How is she?” Zephyrus asks quietly.
Curled in the bottom of the boat, Harper lies with eerie stillness, muscles twitching every so often in an attempt to warm her sodden limbs. She is present in body, but not in mind. The unfocused, small-pupiled eyes betray her mental retreat. “No recent changes.”
I wait in anticipatory silence, but Zephyrus adds nothing more. He has not asked after my well-being. I try not to let his lack of concern bother me, though the sinking sensation in my gut is a most unwelcome visitor.
“Will she recover?” I haven’t inquired until now, fearful of his answer.
Water splashes as the West Wind lifts the pole, allowing the current to drag us around a hairpin corner. “That depends on how the sea-nymphs react to our arrival. Their clan has the means to revive her, but the matriarch has the final say.”
“You don’t think the matriarch will help us?”
“She might help you, in exchange for something of value. But me?” A coarse, raw noise. Laughter, I realize. “Probably not.”
