“I doubt it minds,” Asherton scoffed. He strode into the kitchen, leaving muddy footprints on the white tile. Magdala stopped to wipe her boots on the mat.
Zephyr was not napping—he was waiting for them with bandages, iodine, and disinfectant salve. Magdala wondered if the nap excuse had been a guise to cover his paternal anxiety.
Before Asherton reached Zephyr, she gripped his elbow and yanked him toward the staircase.
“This is the kitchen,” she cried. “You can’t tend bleeding wounds in the kitchen,”
Zephyr crossed his arms over his broad chest, so the duck on his shirt peered over his bulging forearms. “This isn’t your house, Miss Devney.”
Oh, the irony.
“Magdala can tend it in my room,” Asherton said as he continued to the upper floor.
“I’m not your maid!” Magdala shouted up the staircase.
“When you find one, send her up then.” Asherton’s voice faded as his feet pounded down the hallway overhead.
Zephyr stared at her, stony-faced. “Miss Devney, go and patch him up.”
“Me?” Magdala exclaimed. “I’m his bodyguard, not his nurse.”
“Didn’t they teach you wound-tending in training?”
They had, but she wondered if she should pretend they hadn’t. Magdala pursed her lips and stared at Zephyr like a squirrel with its foot in a trap. “I’m not very good at this sort of thing …”
“Get good at it,” Zephyr interrupted. “This won’t be your last time. You’ll find the prince is … accident-prone.”
Zephyr bundled the medical supplies and crammed them into Magdala’s arms. “Go on, before he gets an infection. While you’re at it, take the tea up.” He stacked a set of china on a tray and added a plate of scrambled eggs.
Don’t let your pride get in the way of your duty,she told herself.You have a greater purpose here.
“I’d be happy to,” Magdala said through a tight smile. She followed the tiny drops of blood trailed along her father’s imported carpet up the stairs to Asherton’s room. Flustered, Magdala blundered into the chamber before she stopped to note the familiar door, engraved with Magdala flowers. She froze on the threshold and let out a low “ohhh.”
Asherton wasn’t staying in the master suite, where her father had slept. He had remained in Magdala’s childhood bedroom.
Stunned, Magdala could only blink in the gray light, her blood whistling in her ears, as she took in the sun-faded wallpaper, the four-poster bed she had missed so much, the little fireplace and the two leather chairs facing it, indented as they had been when she sat in them as a little girl.
He’d made the room more masculine—the bed, unmade, was covered in a forest-green muslin comforter, and the chintz draperies had been replaced with dark brocade. The pink paint had been stripped from the wainscot, and a dark stain applied instead. The same for her writing desk. She searched the corners for her rocking horse and glimpsed its chipped nose peering out from behind a curtain.
She might have wallowed in reverie all afternoon, but something sailed past her head and she leaped back.
“Excuse me!” she barked.
“Sorry,” Asherton murmured without turning to look at her. He was balancing on a threadbare ottoman before the ceiling-tall oak bookshelf, tossing books across the room to the bed.
Anton the plant gnawed the curtains, slobbering loudly.
“Livers or kidneys?” Asherton asked abruptly as he climbed down.
“I don’t like either, thanks,” Magdala said as she set the tea tray on a table between the two armchairs.
Asherton dropped onto the edge of the bed and opened a book. Kneeling at his feet, Magdala lifted his bleeding hand. It was cold and rough with calluses. Dirt stained every crease.
She slid her finger over the shallow bites and Asherton winced.
“Oh, does that hurt?” Magdala asked irritably.
“Should I feed Anton frog livers or chicken kidneys?” Asherton asked again.
