Asher’s gaze shutters. “Toss me a pillow. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“I can take the floor,” says Shea, already sitting up. “I don’t mind.”
“Parker,stay.” Asher barks the order like a commanding officer. She freezes, one leg already off the bed. With a groan, he scrubs a hand through his wet hair, turning it to spikes. “Sorry. Just—throw me a pillow, will you?”
“Put him out of his misery,” says Lys. “Can’t you see he’s having a crisis?”
Shooting Lys as deadly a stare as she can muster, Shea tugs his pillow out from beneath him. He thumps back onto the mattress with a laugh. She tosses the pillow to Asher, who swipes it out of the air and gives it a single, firm plump before dropping it to his feet. With a grunt, he lowers himself to the hardwood. The floor creaks as he tosses first this way, then that. Finally, and with a weighted sigh, he flops flat onto his back.
The ensuing silence has a heartbeat. Three of them.
“Sweet dreams, Sunshine,” says Lys.
Asher doesn’t answer.
Not one of them sleeps. Not until dark.
Shea wakes to pitch black.
She’s alone in bed, the pillow beside her cold. Immediately, the hairs on her neck stand on end. She sits up, careful not to bump her head on the top bunk, and peers out in the room’s dormered dark. Seeing nothing, she fishes her hearing aids out from under the pillow and fits them on. Two beeps follow in quick succession. There’s a rush of white noise. Beneath it, silence.
“Thorley?”
“He left” comes Poppy’s voice from above her. “He took the crossbow.”
Shea slides out of bed and clicks on the lamp, squinting in the sudden glaze of light. The room is cold, like someone’s left a window open. Pulling on her flannel, she hops into her boots one after the other, laces trailing as she makes her way toward the door. Poppy descends the ladder, already dressed to leave. Kit dangles in the cradle of her arms, teeth bared in a skeleton grin.
“Did you see them leave?”
“Lysander was gone when I woke up,” says Poppy. “Asher went to look for him. He said to stay put.”
Shea casts her a hard look. “Fat chance.”
“He said you’d say something like that.”
“I’ll bet he did.” She pulls open the door and peers out into the hall. A light is on downstairs. The air is cold as ice, and her breath blooms before her in pale sheaves of gray. “Come on—let’s go see what’s going on.”
“I don’t know, Shea,” says Poppy, hanging back. “What if there’s trouble? We don’t have any weapons.”
“They would have woken us if there was trouble.”
“You really think so?”
She doesn’t. Not really. But there’s no way she’s going to sit around and wait for trouble to find her. There’s no way she’s going to tell Poppy that she can feel him—Lys—wrapped around her ribs like twine. He’s too far. The distance cinches tight, cutting off circulation.
“We can go see if there’s anything to eat in the kitchen,” she says, pleased with how casual she manages to sound. “If we still haven’t found them, we’ll go back up and wait. No one will know.”
“I’llknow,” counters Poppy, but she tails after Shea regardless.
Downstairs, the foyer is quiet. The front door hangs open, cold spilling in in waves. The rain has stopped, but everything outside looks slick and silver in the moonlight. The horses are gone from the pasture. Nothing moves. Nothing sings.
“This feels bad,” says Poppy. “Don’t you think?”
A door falling shut behind them brings them both whirling about.
“Did you see anyone?” asks Shea.
“No. But I see blood.”
