Sam washes his wound gently and puts on the ointment. Blood is still dribbling from the gash, although it has slowed significantly. She helps him sit up against the low table, then pulls the gauze as tight as she dares, afraid it will hurt him. But Will doesn’t react. Each time she wraps the gauze around his back, it brings her close enough to him to feel the warmth radiating from his body. She keeps her eyes downcast as she works; he stays very still. For a while, they continue this quiet rhythm. She can tell the pain is still restricting him to shallow breaths, can feel his abdomen rising and falling in a tense rhythm beneath her touch.
At last, when she’s nearly done, she looks back up to find that he has closed his eyes. His head is bowed, and he sways in place.
“Will?” she says, suddenly alarmed. Her hands come up to hold the sides of his face. His skin is cool and clammy. “Will, stay with me.”
He takes one of her wrists and pulls her forward. Suddenly, they are very close. He sighs, his brows furrowed, and leans his forehead against hers.
“Sam,” he whispers weakly, delirious, his breath hot against her skin.
He has never called her Sam before. Her heart leaps in panic, and she wonders if he’s about to kiss her.
They linger in this intimate state, foreheads against each other, lips barely brushing. His breaths are faint and rapid, his lashes curving against his cheeks. She struggles to stay in the reality of this moment. Will is a solid, harsh figure. She can’t reconcile this vulnerable version of him with the man she knows.
Then he releases her hand, and they move away from each other so that they are no longer touching. His eyes are still closed, but the color in his face seems a little better. Sam swallows, shaken and tingling, her cheeks burning hot.
After another second, she hears the door open and close again, and the alchiatrist bustles back into the room. Sam draws away from Will. The last of their curious moment fades like a fever dream, the faint imprint of it scalded into her memory.
Demeter nods in approval at the way Sam has wrapped the wound, then fills a syringe with liquid from a bottle she’s brought with her. “Does Diamond know?” she asks as she works.
Sam shakes her head. “Not yet.”
The woman takes a moment to look closely at her. “You must be Sam Lang. Mozart.”
Sam doesn’t ask how she knows her name. “Yes.”
Demeter narrows her eyes, then turns her attention back to Will. “Let her help you walk. Do you understand me? Put as little pressure on that wound as possible.”
“I know what to do,” Will says, with a resigned air that suggests this is an old conversation.
“I know you know. The question is what you’ll actually do. I’ve transmuted the shrapnel out of your wound, but you’re fortunate, Will. An inch to the left and you’d be dead by now.”
“Lucky me.”
“Rest,” she tells him sternly. “I mean it.” History is there in her voice, the kind of tone that comes with decades of familiarity, and Sam gets the feeling that Demeter must have known Will as a young child. She turns to Sam. “If Diamond wants details, I can give them to her.”
“I don’t usually see Diamond,” Sam says.
The alchiatrist nods at her. “Oh, this time, you will,” she replies, and Sam shivers.
“Miss Lang,” Will says, and Sam meets his gaze. “Call Hanover. Tell him to arrange a meeting for the instant we arrive back at the gates.”
Now he sounds more like the Will she knows. Relief and disappointment flash through her. Had their previous moment just been an instance of delirium? Maybe Will doesn’t remember it at all.
Sam returns to herself too. “Of course,” she says.
“Demeter.” Will meets the alchiatrist’s eyes directly. “Thank you.”
Demeter just scowls at him. “You’ll probably be thanking me again later this week because you didn’t follow my instructions and pushed yourself too hard.” She squeezes his elbow once. “Some things never change.”
When they arrive at the estate, it’s past 4:00A.M., and Hanover is already waiting inside the gates at the bottom of the hill.
“Hanover—” Sam starts to say as she steps out of the car, but the man is already at Will’s side and opening the door.
“Don’t worry, miss,” Hanover reassures her. “Are you hurt?”
His steady presence calms Sam somewhat, and she shakes her head. “Just Constantine.”
Will scowls but doesn’t protest when Hanover drapes his arm over his shoulders. “Just follow me, miss,” Hanover says. “We’ve all been expecting you.”
