He hadn’t heard from the junior secretary since the other man had left Adriyel for the Ealduns’ family holdings, but then he hadn’t expected to, as it was a journey of some days away. Was Sebrin all right?
Xanthe did not bother to ask him what he meant. She said, “Nothing yet. We transported you as soon as the physicians had finished working on you. Tiago will return in a few days with more supplies. We can hope to learn something then. I’ll fetch the broth and bread.”
“Do not trouble yourself,” he mumbled around the cotton that seemed to have filled his mouth. “I’m afraid it will have to wait until morning.”
“Then rest well, my lord.”
She sounded far away. Any further thought or speculation disappeared into cool evening shadow.
Over the next three days, he slept, and woke, and slept again, until he could not tell if his body ached from the healing wounds or from being confined so long to bed. When he was awake, he lay watching the line of sunlight from the nearby window move along the corner of the quilt, his mind a tired blank. If he made any noise at all, and quite often even when he didn’t, Xanthe was there, patiently spooning broth or water between his lips. She changed his bandages a few times, and it was such an utter misery he had to bite his lip to keep from moaning.
On the morning of the fourth day, birdsong woke him early. He moved unguardedly and swore. Suddenly Xanthe was leaning over him, her dark gaze concerned. “It’s all right,” he said. “I just forgot.” His mouth and throat were a burning desert. “I need a drink, please.”
“Of course. I have some water here.” She turned away and back to him, holding a cup. “I’m going to lift up your head up.”
They had established a routine. He nodded. She slid an arm under his shoulders, bracing him as she lifted gently and held the cup to his mouth. He drank slowly, savoring the cool liquid sliding down his throat. She cradled him against her breast. When he had finished drinking all that he wanted, he leaned his head against her, savoring the warm contact with her body even more than he had the liquid.
If artifice had a scent, to him it smelled like Naida’s perfumes. He had thrown out everything in her bedroom and had it scrubbed from ceiling to floor, yet now and then he still swore that he caught a whiff of her musky perfume. It made him nauseous.
Xanthe smelled nothing of artifice. She had a clean, simple scent, like sunshine and soap.
She asked, “Any more?”
He felt the small vibration of her voice against his temple and cheek. Reluctantly, he said, “No, thank you.”
She eased him back onto his pillows. She looked serious, intent. “I should check your bandages again.”
“Certainly,” he said, bracing himself.
He had to give her credit. She made the unpleasant task as painless as possible. Her perfect expressionless face was back, insisting there was an invisible wall between them as her gentle hands unwound bandages and she checked the wounds.
He looked down at his bare body dispassionately as she worked. He had no embarrassment over his nudity, and he supposed he was made well enough, but the long gashes were red and ugly, and the wound to his back ached and throbbed insistently. He would have to take care not to tear open the knitting muscle.
“This is good,” she murmured. “I think we can leave them off now.”
“Hoopla,” he said. He gave her a one-sided smile. “I actually mean that.”
She grinned. “Do you want some more broth?”
“Gods, no,” he said, and she laughed. He told her with surprise, “I’m really hungry.”
“Excellent. I found some quails eggs yesterday evening. I will bring you some breakfast in a little bit.”
She gathered up the bandages and left the room, returning shortly with scrambled eggs and pan biscuits that had been toasted to a golden brown. She settled into a sitting position on the bed beside him. “My apologies for the simple fare. Tiago will be coming some time day, which is a good thing, since our food supply has dwindled. We’ve got tea, oil and dry oats. If he’s detained for any reason, I will have to do a bit of foraging and hunting.”
“This is wonderful,” he said in all truthfulness. The steaming eggs were golden and the pan biscuits were delicious. He ate all of the eggs and a biscuit, and then with the abruptness of a convalescent tumbled headlong into sleep.
The sound of voices woke him. Tiago and Niniane were talking with Xanthe in the next room. “This is a wonderful place,” Niniane said.
“It is very small,” Xanthe said. “My father built it for us after my mother died.”
“Your father was a true craftsman. It’s beautifully done. The furniture is lovely, and so is the floor.”
Aubrey glanced over the edge of the bed at the planed hardwood floors that bore the smooth patina of age. “We brought half the marketplace with us,” Tiago said.
“And this bag is full of books,” said Niniane. “This one is full of clothes for Aubrey. And this one is full of games. You have plenty here with which to occupy yourselves, as soon as Aubrey is feeling up to it.”