I snort softly as I set the needle aside and reach for the clean cloth again, wiping the last smear of blood from his temple. “You trust me enough to let me sew your face back together.”
“I trust your skill,” he corrects gently. “Trusting your intentions is a more complex matter.”
I pause, the cloth hovering against his skin. “And what do you think my intentions are, Lord Ashford?”
He studies me for a long moment. His gaze does not wander the way most men’s do; it rests, as though he is reading something written beneath my skin.
“I think,” he says slowly, “that you are very careful with kindness. You spend it like coin you cannot afford to lose.”
“That is hardly an answer.” I withdraw the cloth and set it beside the basin. The kitchen smells faintly of herbs and cooled hearth ash. Outside, the sun is starting to rise, coloring the sky in soft tones of pink and purple.
“They say you make deals,” I say at last. “What kind of deals?”
He tilts his head, considering. “The ordinary sort, mostly. A man wants fortune. A woman wants safety. A merchant wants advantage. A noble wants power without consequence.” A faint smile touches his mouth.
“And you give them what they truly want?” I ask.
Ashford leans forward and touches his hand to his temple. “No. I give them what they trulychoose.”
“That sounds like a riddle.”
He shakes his head. “It is a warning.”
I fold my hands together to keep them from fidgeting. “And what do they give you in return?”
His gaze drifts briefly to my fingers, still faintly stained with his blood, before returning to my face. “Something of equal value,” he says simply and shrugs.
“And how do you measure that?” I ask.
“I listen to what they are willing to give and decide if it’senough.”
I consider his words.
“You said you have always known what people needed.”
“I usually do.”
“Then tell me,” I say, meeting his eyes, refusing to look away now. “What do you think I need?”
He grows very still.
I wonder if I have misstepped, if I have asked something too intimate. The fire crackles faintly behind us, shifting shadows across the stone walls.
Then he exhales through his nose, almost amused. “You need eight uninterrupted hours of sleep.”
The answer startles a laugh out of me before I can stop it.
“Do not mock me.”
“I would never mock exhaustion. It is the most honest state a person can inhabit.”
My smile fades slowly as he continues to watch me.
“You need,” he goes on more quietly, “to set down burdens that were placed upon you by men who mistook your endurance for willingness.”
My chest tightens.
“And,” he adds, his voice lowering slightly, “you need to remember that survival is not the same as living.”
