“I’ll get it,” he said, pouring the water into a glass and handing it to me.
I finished it. My eyes caught on the lines of his bare chest. The awareness of him here, close, settled over me like a weight.
“What was your nightmare about?” he asked, taking the empty glass from my hand.
My gaze dropped to the faint scar on my wrist, the two fang marks that felt both distant and painfully close.
“I dreamt my sister was in the Northern Forest instead of me. And the Strzyga attacked her.” I took a breath, trying to shake the image. “It felt worse than when it happened to me.”
“Do you dream about that often?” he asked.
“No. Not since it happened.”
The words faded, leaving a fresh pang of guilt in their place.
Reagan reached for my hand. I met his gaze, and in it was...comfort. His finger traced each knuckle slowly. Gentle.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” I repeated. “It won’t happen again.”
His lips curved. “Are you trying to kick me out?”
“Yes,” I answered, pulling my hand from his. “It’s late.”
But he didn’t move. Instead, he placed a hand on my knee, over the blanket, his fingers brushing the fabric—and the leg beneath it.
“Will you be able to fall back asleep?”
My body prickled with goosebumps. “Yes,” I lied.
He withdrew his hand, but his gaze pierced me. “I can help you relax,” he said, and a shiver coursed through me. “Remember the training room?”
I hesitated, then dipped my chin. “What exactly did you do in the training room?”
His grin returned. “It’s just a simple healing charm. I was merely easing the muscle spasms, but it seemed to soothe you.”
It had been a pleasant feeling. But the thought of Joy still lingered in my mind, and guilt had settled over me. I hadn’t thought about her for a long time.
“I just want to be alone.”
I tucked myself under the blanket again, turning toward the window without seeing Reagan leave.
The next morning, the guilt remained. I couldn’t tell whether it came from the fact that, for a while, I hadn’t thought of them, or from the unsettling realisation that Reagan might have been right. I was no longer in a rush to return.
???
Alameda and Coriander had plans that kept us busy the next morning.
She invited me to walk in the garden with her, while Coriander took Reagan on what they described as anot-life-threateninghunt of sea spiders, a creature that dwelt along a quieter stretch of the coast and occasionally around ships’ hulls.
After they left, we made our way to the spring garden, where she showed me how to tend a newly planted section. Bright beams had long warmed our skin by the time we sat at a glass table with comfortable cushioned chairs near a water fountain. Alameda removed her shoes, letting her feet splay on the grass beneath her seat.
“What did you think of the Pool of Quintessence?” she asked after I told her what Reagan and I had done the night before.
She leaned back in her chair, her eggplant-coloured chiffon dress light and dramatic, its flowing sleeves and shimmering sequin florals catching the sunlight.
“It was challenging,” I said, clearing my throat. “I wasn’t used to swimming.”
“You can just sit and enjoy it,” she said, rolling her shoulders. “It’s great after a stressful day, which I hope wasn’t your case.”
