“I’ll see to him,” Edmund said firmly, gripping the chair handles. “You stay with her.”
Andrew nodded, still breathing hard, his pulse racing with adrenaline and fear. He looked from George’s slumped form to Isla’s still figure, his heart twisting for both of them.
“Thank you,” he heard Isla murmur quietly. It seemed she was unaware that her healer couldn’t hear her.
“Yes, thank you, both of you,” Andrew said to Edmund, who gave him a short nod before pushing the chair swiftly toward the corridor.
When the door swung shut behind them, the room felt impossibly still. Andrew reached out with a trembling hand, brushing a damp lock of hair from Isla’s forehead. Her skin was cool now, her pulse faint but steady beneath his fingers.
“You’re safe,” he whispered, the words more a prayer than assurance.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
November 12th
Isla walked with Andrew through a quiet corner of the university grounds, her arm looped through his. Her other arm felt stiff, the skin numb in places where nerves had burned away. They didn’t speak. The hush of the late afternoon hung between them as she studied the architecture—the grand, timeworn buildings streaked with age.
Both she and George had been released from the hospital, but the memory of his drained, pale face haunted her. He had saved her life—and her arm—at great cost to himself. His Aetheric gifts were lying dormant for now, his usually boyish grin replaced by exhaustion. Guilt gnawed at her. He had given everything, and yet she mourned the ruined flesh of her arm. Harold’s friend Susan, the counselor, had told Isla that she needed time, but gratitude and grief were uneasy companions. She felt vain for caring, yet she could not quiet the ache for the woman she used to see in the mirror.
She stopped before an old fountain—a marble nymph standing gracefully at its center, pouring water from a cracked urn. She was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, though her nose was chipped and other areas looked worn out by the years of being exposed to the English elements. Isla stared at her, transfixed.
The place was deserted, so she lifted her palm, green energy faintly glimmering as she reached toward the sculpture. Shewanted to mend her—restore the nymph to her former beauty. The fragments of stone appeared to be shivering, then they began to lift, forming a delicate, fully formed nose ... then they crumbled, the nymph’s entire nose now tumbling into the water with a softplop.
A single tear slid down Isla’s cheek. She raised her hand again, determined—but Andrew’s fingers closed gently around her forearm, the firm pressure encouraging her to lower her hand.
“Isla,” he said quietly. “What are you doing?”
She swallowed past a lump in her throat. “I just ... wanted to make her beautiful again.” Her voice cracked. “I know I sound ungrateful, but the scars on my arm are unsightly. I’m awful for saying so, I know, but I feel ugly and embarrassed. Ugly and guilty because George sacrificed so much, yet here I am being vain, but I can’t help it.”
A sound rose from Andrew’s throat—half growl, half pained breath. His hands found her waist, and he pulled her to him firmly. He was always so careful with his touches, as though afraid to push any boundaries, but now his grip was strong and steady.
“Don’t you ever say that again.” His voice was fierce, trembling with conviction. His hand came beneath her chin, guiding her to meet his eyes. They burned—as if he couldn’t let her slip further into that self-loathing.
“You are the most beautiful woman in the world, with or without scars, with wrinkles or with the skin of youth. Isla Cole, your inner beauty radiates and surpasses any physical blow life might throw at you.”
For a moment, there was only the sound of the fountain’s trickling water.
He looked around at the old buildings surrounding them—the worn arches, the ivy-veined walls. “These buildings have stood the test of time. There’s beauty in age, in marks, in decay. Every flaw tells a story. If someone polished it all away, made it perfect again, it would lose what makes it extraordinary. It would lose its charm. The same goes for people.”
He looked back at her, his eyes flicking between hers. “I wish I could take the pain for you, Isla, all of it—and yes, I understand that you need to grieve and that you wish it had never happened, as do I. I am not diminishing your pain, nor your longing to be healed. But every scar you bear, every wrinkle you gain, every gray hair and callous that is to come, is beautiful. It means you lived.”
His hands loosened on her waist slightly. “And if this relationship goes where I hope it will,” he added with a wry smile, “I’m hoping you’ll see me with graying hair, wrinkles, perhaps hair sprouting from my ears—”
Teary laughter bubbled out of her, the heaviness in her chest easing a little.
“Truly,” he murmured, voice low now, reverent. “You are exquisite. Just as you are.”
His gaze dipped briefly to her lips, and for a heartbeat she thought he might kiss her. Her pulse quickened. But he swallowed, stepping back, and offered her his arm instead—a gentleman’s restraint. Somehow she knew he didn’t want to kiss her while she was feeling vulnerable, though his eyes still glowed with everything he hadn’t said.
She slipped her arm through his again, his warmth beside her steadying her. Although he hadn’t kissed her, he had hinted that he wanted a long future with her. But was he Fated? She hadn’t dared ask him. Though he had suggested he had livedprevious lives, so her guess was that he was, yet she wanted solid proof. Had those lives been with her or someone else? What if, despite the fact that they liked each other in this life ... what if he was intended for another?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
November 19th
Isla paused in the quiet hallway; the sound of violin music filtered through the old walls. The melody carried a quiet longing, touching something she hadn’t thought of in years, and it drew her mind to whatever might be unfolding behind Andrew’s closed door.
She had risen early this morning, determined the day was going to be a good one. It was far better to face the day prepared and polished than scrambling to keep up.
