“Want to try?” she asked.
Nate reached for the brush and weaved his fingers into Alden’s hair, gripping as Sparks’d done. He brushed from the tips and worked his way toward his hand stroke after stroke.
“There you go,” Sparks said. “Perfect.”
Their eyes met. “Thank you.”
She touched his head with a tired smile. “I’ll do yours when you’re done.”
By the time Nate finished with Alden’s hair, the early morning sun lit the whole room in soft blues and greens. He set the brush aside, took Alden’s wrists, and massaged them gently, trying to work blood back into his hands.
Alden’s fingers were rubbery and cold, as if all the life was already gone from them.
Reed rolled over in his sleep and threw one arm over Alden.
“Well. I never thought I’d see that.” Nate smiled. He couldn’t recall much from the haze of being sick in Alden’s shop, but he remembered the sound of their voices mingling—Reed’s deep and warm, and Alden’s brittle. He wondered what they would have thought of each other if they’d met outside of the shadow of all the things they’d done. All the things that had been donetothem.
Sparks covered her mouth and yawned.
“You should keep sleeping,” Nate said. “We have to leave tomorrow.”
She frowned, disappointed. “Already?”
“We won’t need to be here after tomorrow.”
She glanced down at Alden, her shoulders sagging. “Oh,” she murmured, touching the part of his hair she’d untangled. “Sorry, Nate.”
He didn’t say it was all right, because it wasn’t. Instead, he gave an absent nod.
Sparks scuffled to tuck herself against Brick. Pixel slept curled up so small she was barely visible among the cushions on the couch. Juniper was still too, some of her hair woven between her fingers, as if she’d clutched it as she’d fallen asleep.
Nate listened to Alden breathing and the softer, gentler sound of Reed’s snores.
Bernice had gone in her sleep. Nate didn’t know what to look or listen for. Every few minutes, Alden made a quiet, whimpering sound. But he didn’t stir or struggle. And his noisy breathing stayed the same—steady in its own unnatural rhythm.
A shadow crossed Nate. He turned to see a plump silhouette in the door. It wasn’t James. It was a woman in a tunic and heavy boots. A long Servant’s robe draped over her arm.
“Hello?” she called out very softly. “Jamie sent me to check on you. Is anyone awake?”
Nate picked himself up, careful not to trip over Sparks and Brick. It was dark in the hallway. His hair hung in his face like a curtain. He wanted to go back to sleep. “I’m awake. Mostly.”
“The young man who’s ill. . .” Her voice trailed off unsteadily. “Will you tell me his name?”
“It’s Alden,” Nate said. “He owned a curio shop on the other side of the Withers. It burned in the fires.”
“Alden,” she echoed.
“You sound relieved. . .”
And sad.
“I was looking for someone. But that’s not his name,” she said.
“Will you pray for him?” Nate didn’t know much about how Servants worshipped the Old Gods, but it seemed like a prayer or two couldn’t hurt.
“No.” She made a quiet, embarrassed sound. “Oh! That must sound terrible. Jamie will. He’s very devoted. I’m a bit of an odd duck as far as Servants go.”
He smiled at her nervous awkwardness. “You don’t believe?”
