I get a bowl of cool water and a cloth. I sit by his head and wipe his face. He is mumbling. Fragments of sentences. Ghosts of the past. "...didn't mean to..." "...too loud... the music is too loud..." "...Clara, step back..."
I freeze. He is dreaming of her. "I'm not Clara," I whisper, wiping his brow. "I'm Elodie."
He turns his head, his eyes opening. They are blind, seeing things that aren't there. "Elodie," he gasps. "Don't go. The silence... don't let the silence back in."
"I'm here."
"They want to take you," he whimpers, gripping my wrist with his good hand. His grip is surprisingly strong, fueled by panic. "The Board. Sterling. They want to turn you into a doll. Don't let them."
"I won't."
"I had to break it," he confesses, tears leaking from his eyes. "The glass. The glass was too thin. I had to make it iron."
"Shh," I soothe. "Rest."
"Cold," he moans. "Elodie... please..."
He is hypothermic from the fever chills. The blankets aren't enough. I look at the window. The snow is piled high against the glass, a wall of ice. I look at him. I strip off my ruined sweater. I strip off my leggings. I am in my underwear. I climb under the furs with him.
The heat coming off him is scorching, but his skin feels like ice to the touch. I wrap my body around his. I press my chest against his back. I tangle my legs with his. "I've got you," I whisper.
He instinctively seeks the warmth. He rolls over, burying his face in my neck, his heavy arm coming up to trap me against him. We are skin to skin. It is intimate, but not sexual. It is survival. It is the rawest form of contact two humans can have. I am using my life to keep his burning.
"Elodie," he sighs against my skin, his shivering starting to subside.
"I'm here, Alaric. I'm not going anywhere."
I stroke his hair. It is damp with sweat. I realize, lying there in the dark, that I have crossed a line. I washed his blood from my hands. I sewed his flesh. Now I am holding him while he burns. I am no longer the captive. I am the keeper.
He shifts, his nose brushing the curve of my breast. "Mine," he murmurs into the sleep. "My symphony."
"Yes," I whisper back into the darkness. "Yours."
I fall asleep to the sound of his ragged breathing and the storm trying to break in.
I wake to silence. The storm has passed. The light filtering into the room is blindingly white—sunlight reflecting off the snow. I am warm. Too warm. I try to move, but I am pinned.
Alaric is awake. He is lying on his back, his arm behind his head. I am draped over him, my head resting on his chest, my leg thrown over his hip. I push myself up, blinking against the light. "Alaric?"
He looks at me. The fever is gone. The glassiness has left his eyes, replaced by the sharp, terrifying intelligence of the Director. But there is something else there too. A softness. A vulnerability that hasn't fully hardened back over.
He lifts his bandaged hand, inspecting my work. "Ten stitches," he notes. "A simple interrupted suture pattern. A bit messy on the knots, but effective."
"I saved your life," I say, my voice raspy. "You're welcome."
He looks from his hand to me. He takes in my disheveled hair, the dark circles under my eyes, the fact that I am half-naked in his bed. He reaches out with his good hand and touches my cheek. "Why?" he asks.
"Why what?"
"Why didn't you let me die?" He traces my lower lip with his thumb. "You know the code. You could have left. You could be halfway to Canada by now."
I look at him. I think about the answer.Because I'm scared.Because I have nowhere to go.Because you are the only one who sees me.
"Because," I whisper, leaning into his touch. "If you die, the music stops."
Alaric stares at me for a long moment. Then, a slow smile spreads across his face. "Then we keep playing."
He sits up, wincing slightly as his hand moves. The sheet falls to his waist. He is naked. He reaches to the bedside table and opens the drawer. He takes out a gun. Not the rifle. A smaller one. A compact SIG Sauer, matte black.
