I dabbed the corner of one gash, and Dorian let out a deep groan. But as soon as the liquid touched the wound, the bleeding stopped.
“Coagulating,” I echoed, half in wonder.
By the time I’d cleaned all the cuts, he was soaked in sweat and drifting—barely conscious, lost to the pain. I would have let him sleep, but the wounds needed to be closed first.
I rose and crossed into the main room of Thalassa’s hollow. The scent of something yeasty wafted from her kitchen—a strange counterpoint to the suffering behind me.
“Thread and a needle?” I asked.
She turned at once, almost cheerfully, and shuffled over. “Yes, yes.” From the branches of her medicine wall, she pulled out a long, stringy batch of fibers. Not moss; finer, the same color as her white hair. She pressed it into my hand. Itwasher hair. Into my other hand she set a long, slender claw, bone-white and even sharper than the hedge leaves. This had once belonged to some kind of creature.Thornstalker?
“Not to worry.” She patted my wrists. “The hedge grows so thick, screams can’t penetrate.”
I gave her a wan smile and a nod.
“You’ll need to press hard. Fae skin is tougher than what you’re used to.” She tottered back to her pots, humming to herself as though this were all quite ordinary.
Wonderful.
When I returned, Dorian’s face was half in shadow—but his eyes found mine, practically glowing in the semidarkness. “Yes, I overheard.” His voice sounded drunk.
“I was hoping you were too delirious.”
From the kitchen, Thalassa let out a high, delighted chortle. “He will be,” she called. “He will be.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The stitching was grueling.
Dorian’s screams weren’t just from the claw I forced again and again through his skin—they came from somewhere deeper. The poison, Thalassa had told me, felt like small blades running through the veins, and I believed it. By the time I tied off the last stitch, he lay on his stomach in a pool of sweat, fully unconscious, his back rising and falling in shallow jerks.
I was drenched, too. My thighs trembled from straddling him with shaking hands, and I wanted to cry. But it was done. All five wounds sealed. I didn’t know if Isa would be proud or horrified by my work.
Thalassa poked her head in. “I bet that built up a hunger.”
I blinked over at her, too wrung out to answer.
“Eat. It’s tasty.” Her grin cracked wide, too many teeth for her small mouth. “Well, probably. I’ve never served a human.”
Ten minutes later—after I’d wiped the sweat from my face and scrubbed Dorian’s blood from my skin with a pad of moss—I stepped into the main room and was ushered to a low stool.
How long must she have been trapped here to craft a stool from wood? Four hundred years, she’d said once. That was around thetime Queen Carys started the trials. And the Eldermaze had only been in the trials one time, which meant…
She was one of the original fae, thought lost.
Thalassa’s hands, surprisingly strong, landed on my shoulders and pressed me down onto it. Beside me sat a small round table. She bustled back to the kitchen and returned with a wide bowl in both hands, which she set at the center.
She moved back and forth several more times, setting out bowls, cups, and a tall jug. Then she eased down onto the stool across from me, slow and deliberate.
When I didn’t move, she gave a sharp wave of her hand. “Tethryn.Don’t you know Sylvanwild custom?”
“I don’t suppose I do. In the citadel, someone brought food and we just ate.”
She sighed, shoulders slumping. “Bloody citadel. In Sylvanwild, when you’re a guest, you must eat before I can.”
“Oh.” I picked up the long-handled ladle and scooped out a thick orange liquid into my bowl. It reminded me of the sweet potatoes I’d eaten in the citadel, but sweeter. I had no idea where she procured food from.
Thalassa still hadn’t moved, but her eyes were buglike and luminous on me. Right. I had to eat before she could serve herself.
