I’m more likely to blame you if I don’t sleep tonight.
Wesley cleared his throat. “There might be some kerosene lamps in a closet. If you’re tending to the fire, I’ll take a look.”
And the next time he caught Sebastian staring at the settee, quiet and pale, Wesley didn’t comment. He wasn’t good for much, but he could try not to make things worse, and he could sleep light in case an ex-medic whowasn’t a good sleeperneeded anything during the night.
Wake up, de Leon.
“Sebastian.”
Sebastian heard his name from a distance, the roll of the English accent tinted with something almost like concern.
But he couldn’t move. The voice was a dream, an illusion of freedom. There was no freedom, only the Puppeteer’s control.
This isn’t your tropical paradise.
“Sebastian, wake up.”
I need your magic.
A hand firmly gripped Sebastian’s shoulder. “Sebastian, wake the bloody hell up.”
Sebastian’s eyes flew open on their own. For a moment, he didn’t understand—a face was inches from his own, barely visible in the dark, an incessant drumming was coming from somewhere behind him—
“Come on, keep those pretty eyes open, that’s right.”
The hand on Sebastian’s shoulder was warm and strong, and something in him responded like a falling man clutching a rope. His surroundings came to him in a rush: the butter-soft velvet of the settee beneath his cheek; the fireplace, burned down to only glowing embers now; the drumbeat of rain lashing the windows and glass balcony door.
And Lord Fine gripping his shoulder, waking him up.
And abruptly, the terror let Sebastian go. His limbs reflexively loosened and he sagged into the settee, breathing hard. “Gracias, thank you,” he said, the words tumbling out, low and hoarse. “What a welcome sight you are.”
Lord Fine made a surprised sound. “Well, that has to be the first time anyone has said that to me,” he said, sounding a little hoarse himself. “I’d ask if you’re all right, but what a stupid and pointless question that would be.”
Sebastian tried to laugh, but it was broken even to his own ears. He rubbed his face with his hand. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Oh, shut up,” Lord Fine said, without bite. He was still holding Sebastian’s shoulder, his hand a single point of warmth. If anything, his grip had grown tighter. “You’re shaking.”
Sebastian was, both from the terror and the cold. He’d stacked the wood high in the fireplace but it hadn’t lasted the night, and now the rain’s staccato filled the room and the air had the icy edge of the hours past midnight.
“You ridiculous tropical flower.” Lord Fine let go of his shoulder then, reaching for something on the floor. “I assume you didn’t intend to lose this.”
His blanket, the thick wool one Lord Fine had given him off the bed. Sebastian took it, sitting up and pulling it around his shoulders like armor as Lord Fine shifted from the settee to crouch by the fireplace.
“What are you doing?” Sebastian asked, squinting at the dark shape in front of the glowing ashes.
“The better question is why you keep assuming I’m completely useless.”
There was the sound of wood stacked on wood, then a small bright flame lit the area as Lord Fine struck a match. He tossed the match into the fireplace, and a fire jumped up with a burst of light and an audible roar.
Sebastian’s eyes widened.
“It’s lamp oil, relax.” Lord Fine moved back to sit on one of the velvet chairs. “You’re still shivering. I may not have magic, but I can fix that.”
The warmth was already reaching Sebastian’s frozen limbs, almost dizzyingly welcome. “It is wonderful,” he said, with feeling.
“Good.” Lord Fine sat back in the chair. “So what was that I just saw you going through?”
Sebastian blew out a breath. “Nothing. Thank you for waking me, but you should go back to bed.”
