Page 154

Movement reaches my middle finger. My thumb twitches against the cloth beneath it. I continue until the effort exhausts what little strength the remedy has returned.

“Rest,” she says. “Movement will come as the poison weakens.”

I obey because I have no useful alternative.

Sensation advances slowly through my hand and wrist. It reaches the cut beneath the cold wrapping, bringing a dull throb. The pain is welcome. Pain belongs to living flesh.

Something darker stirs beneath it.

Chaos.

At first, my magic is only a pressure behind the numiscu. I reach toward it with greater care than I used before. The poison still obstructs the path through my blood, but the barrier has thinned.

A black spark rises above my house ring.

Fiona sees it. “Not too much.”

I shape the smallest current I can hold.

Chaos threads through the returning channels of my right arm. Where it meets numiscu, the magic recoils. I refuse to force it. Destruction would tear poisoned flesh along with the poison.

Instead, I let the power move with my pulse.

Each measured current breaks down a fraction of the numiscu remaining near the wound. Black motes rise from my skin carrying a faint oily sheen. Fiona catches them against a white tile rather than allowing the residue to vanish.

Evidence.

She trusts my magic enough to let it help. I trust her remedy enough to restrain it.

The combination works.

My hand lifts a finger’s width from the chaise and falls.

Fiona places her palm beneath it. “Try once more.”

I close my fingers.

They curl weakly around her calloused hand.

She makes a sound caught between laughter and grief. Her forehead lowers until it touches our joined hands.

The gesture costs nearly all my returned strength, but I maintain it.

She understands.

The treatment is working.

“I have you,” she says. “You can release me.”

I keep my fingers closed for one additional breath before obeying.

Recovery proceeds in increments too small for pride. Fiona gives another diluted measure. My left hand regains sensation near dawn. I can turn my head before I can lift it. My first attempt to speak produces only air.

“Do not force your throat,” she says.

I wait.

The sun touches the mountain after hours of darkness. Pale light enters through the open window and reveals exhaustion carved across Fiona’s face. Freckles stand out against skin gone colorless with fatigue. She remains beside me.