A soft, mellow voice, devoid of all feeling.
A placid, vacant expression.
Cold, limp hands…
Astrid lets out a dreamy sigh, rousing me from my thoughts. Her voice takes on an airy quality. “I feel so much better now.”
“You’re high on poison,” I say with a glare. I’m vaguely aware of a soft smile playing over her lips, although her mouth remains just behind the haze forever marring her face.
She meets my eyes. “I told you. I take the tincture to manage my mood.”
“I thought you did it to control what impression you make when meeting new people.”
“I do,” she says, a note of haughty indignation in her voice. Then her scent flares with guilt. “But I use it for me too.”
“Why?”
She shifts from foot to foot. “My emotions haven’t been as…as tolerable since Father died. I don’t like how I feel when the Crimson Malus wears off.”
“That’s probably more due to withdrawal from the drug than anything else.”
“No,” she says in a rush. “It’s…it’s…you wouldn’t understand. You think I’m guilty, so you can’t comprehend the grief I feel.” Her voice begins to quaver at the end.
That’s all it takes to shatter some of my composure, cutting through the anger I felt a moment ago. The truth is, I know the grief she feels. Just like I know that she truly feels it. A dark note lingers just beneath her scent profile, where the aroma of dew dips into the fragrance of a stormy sea.
It’s sorrow. I’m too keenly familiar with that emotion not to recognize it, no matter how one’s personal scent profile expresses it.
“Sit down already,” I say as I retrieve the cloth from the ewer and dip it into the warm water.
This time, she obeys. Perhaps I should be grateful for the mellowing effect the poison has on her. I bend down on one knee and bring the cloth to her arm. She snatches the limb back before I can make contact with her wound. “What are you doing?”
I cut her an irritated look. With her sitting and me kneeling, we’re nearly eye to eye. “What does it look like?”
“Don’t touch it. It’s going to hurt.” She glances at her elbow and quickly averts her gaze. Her voice rises nearly an octave. “It’s still bleeding.”
I encircle her wrist with my cuffed hand so she won’t pull away this time, and bring the cloth to her arm. Softly, I dab at the dried blood, starting at her wrist. She closes her lips on a whine, her eyelids pressed tight, head angled as far from me as it can go. I roll my eyes. “What is with you and blood?”
“I don’t like it.”
“You didn’t seem too shaken when you watched me bite off an ogre’s head. Nor did you cower when you saw me covered in blood. And you seemed fully captivated during the fight at Department Wrath. Were you not aware the duel might end in bloodshed?”
Finally, she opens her eyes to glare at me. “I don’t like seeingmy ownblood.”
“Well, that must be inconvenient,” I say with a smirk. “Do you not have monthly courses?”
“That’s different.” Her scent profile flares with embarrassment. “You shouldn’t even mention such a thing. Have you any idea how private a lady’s courses are?”
I shake my head. “You really are half human, aren’t you?”
With a huff, she angles her head away again.
I continue to clean her wound, slowly working up her arm. Quiet falls between us, punctuated by the occasional hiss of pain. Finally, I reach her elbow, which I know will hurt. Even though I’d prefer to work in silence, I figure it might be best to distract her. “You work for Madame Desire.”
“Yes.” The word dissolves into a wince.
“But not like the other girls do.”
“No,” she bites out. “I’m a matchmaker.”
