I lifted a spoonful to my mouth. From the corner of my eye, I watched Fenrik do the same.
He actually ate, not just pushed food around his bowl or took a single bite before abandoning the effort like the past days. His throat moved with each swallow, and I found myself tracking the movement with rather much attention.
From the shadows, I heard Mrs. Crane exhale. “First proper meal in a week, sir.”
Fenrik’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth. Something flickered across his face, surprise, perhaps, or embarrassment at being so obviously monitored.
“Has it been that long since I’veeaten?” he asked.
“Eight days, sir. I’ve been counting.”
I set down my own spoon. Eight days without proper food. That explained the sharpness of his cheekbones, the shadows beneath his eyes that I’d attributed to sleeplessness alone.
“The curse suppresses appetite,” I said.
Fenrik’s jaw tightened. “Among other things.”
“What else?”
“Is that actually relevant?”
“Yes. Everything about your condition is relevant. I’m trying to help you, remember? That’s why I’m here.” I gestured at the absurdly intimate seating arrangement. “That’s why we’re sharing a chair.”
“We are not sharing a chair.”
“We’re close enough that I can feel your heartbeat.”
The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them. Because it was true, I could feel it, that strange doubled rhythm pulsing through the air between us, and now we were both aware that I was aware, and the heat radiating from his arm had intensified to the point where I half-expected my sleeve to start smouldering.
Fenrik set down his spoon. “You can feel my heartbeat.”
“It’s rather loud.” I reached for my wine glass, desperate for something to do with my hands. “And slightly off-rhythm. Like a drummer who’s had too much ale.”
“How flattering.”
“I’m a healer, not a poet.”
“Evidently.”
The fire crackled. Rain hammered the windows. I took a long sip of wine and tried to organise my thoughts into something resembling coherence.
“The creatures in the sanctuary,” I said. “They’re all showing the same symptoms. Silver threading beneath the skin, erratic magical discharge, sensitivity to the ward fluctuations.”
“I’m aware.”
“Three bonded dragons died in town last night. Identical presentation.”
His hand tightened on his glass. “I hadn’t heard.”
“Maren sent word this morning. And Thorven mentioned something interesting.” I set down my wine, turning slightly in my chair to face him. Our knees nearly touched beneath the table. “He saw Lady Kelda’s carriage outside one of the victims’ homes. The evening before the dragon died.”
“So? Kelda has many acquaintances in town,” Fenrik said.
“She was watching the house. From her carriage. In the rain. For no apparent reason.”
“Perhaps she enjoys the weather.”
“Perhaps she’s—“ I stopped, reconsidered, then started again. “The energy coming off you right now. Can you feel it?”
