It was listing on its side, water pouring over it. Another wave, and she lost sight of him again. She held her breath, exhaled in a sob, and then held her breath again.
A minute passed.
Another.
She didn’t see him.
He’s drowned. I lost him. And I never—She didn’t know how to end that thought. She didn’t know what she could have had, what they could have had, but whatever could have been had been swallowed by the angry sea and sky.
And then she saw movement, away from the ship: the golden merhorse was swimming through the wild waves with two figures on its back, one riding tall and the other limp. She watched, unable to move, unable to help, unable to do anything but shake and not breathe then breathe again, as they reached the jetty. She watched as Larran climbed off the merhorse and lifted the storm’s victim into his arms. Step by step, he walked over the rocks. His foot slipped once—he caught himself—he continued on, cradling the stranger against him.
He reached the shore.
And he kept going, fighting the wind and the rain.
Kiela rushed to the door and flung it open before he could knock. He stumbled inside. She helped him carry the woman—the survivor was a woman, slight and pale and very cold, with flame-red hair—to his bed. She was breathing, so quietly that Kiela could barely hear her and then only because her breath had a whistle-like hiss.
While Larran secured the door, Kiela pulled the unconscious woman’s wet tunic off and dressed her as quickly as she could in warm layers. Coming back into the bedroom, Larran piled quilts onto her and tucked them around her.
He then shed his own shirt and pants and dressed in dry clothes. He was shaking hard, and she saw a scrape on his calf. Blood, watery from the rain and sea, had flowed down to his ankle. Kiela worked quickly, washing out the wound and then wrapping it with bandages she found in a kitchen drawer.
Neither of them spoke.
He didn’t seem to have the strength left for speaking. She didn’t know what to say. She felt as though a thousand words were jumbled just behind her lips, battling to come out. At last, she said, “I’m glad you didn’t die.”
“Me too,” he said.
They both fell silent again. Outside, the unnatural storm wept and raged.
Chapter Eighteen
“You saved her life,” Kiela said.
She’d never seen anything that heroic. Or idiotic.
He hovered over the rescued woman, adding yet another quilt and then removing it and instead tucking the quilts she already had around her tighter. “She isn’t awake yet.”
“You could have died.”
“She would have died,” he pointed out. “Still could. Why isn’t she awake?”
Leaning over her, Kiela felt the woman’s forehead. Her skin had warmed from chilled-as-a-fish cold to tucked-into-bed toasty. She had pink in her previously pale cheeks and was breathing easily. Really, it was nothing short of miraculous that she was breathing at all. “I don’t think she has a fever.”
“She could develop one,” Larran said. “She could have internal injuries.”
Kiela kept picturing the moment when he’d disappeared from view, the waves too high for her to see beyond. She’d felt as if she’d drowned in that instant. She’d never felt so helpless. She knew she was going to be reliving that in her nightmares again and again.No one ever drowns in a library.And then she thought:No, they just burn.“Is there a healer on the island?”
Not taking his eyes off the rescued woman, Larran nodded. “Ivor. As soon as the storm ends, I’ll take her to him. Or have him come here. She shouldn’t be moved if she has internal injuries. There’s no way to know if she does, until she wakes. If she wakes.” He began to pace back and forth, between the bed and the window, alternating between checking on the woman and checking on the storm.
Kiela watched him fret. “Do you know her?”
He shook his head. “She’s not from Caltrey.”
“You know everyone on Caltrey?” She hadn’t known everyone in the library, though she supposed not all of them left their stacks, so she’d had no opportunity. She’d at least been able to recognize by sight the ones on her floor and . . . Okay, fine, she didn’t know even a quarter of the librarians. It hadn’t seemed necessary.
“It’s a small island. Plus, her fire hair is recognizable.”
“Not in Alyssium. It’s fashionable.” Nobles liked to have sorcerers spell their hair different colors. She’d seen hair that boasted all the colors of the rainbow, hair that gleamed silver as metal, and hair that sparkled as if fireflies were caught between curls. Kiela knew one library patron who not only changed her hair color weekly but would have it crafted into the silhouettes of animals, as if her hair were an elaborate topiary. With just a single color . . . this woman was most likely a lesser noble. Or a shopkeeper with extra spending money who wanted to socialize with the rich. Kiela hadn’t paid enough attention to fashion to know if it signified anything more, such as an allegiance to a particular family or cause, but she supposed it was possible. “She could have fled the city.”
