He made a quick inventory. Three of her nails on her left hand and all of the nails on her right were bleeding and they would be sore, but her fingers appeared unbroken. He pressed them to his lips, the way a parent does with a child, though he knew he was consoling himself. Was it just last night he’d kissed her hand? Good God, he’d aged ten years in mere hours.
“Dani?” he repeated, smoothing her hair back from her brow. The water was rising, steam billowed around them, and her skin was starting to pinken.
Then her eyes opened, and awareness descended. She blinked, blinked again, and then lifted her head slightly from the crook of his shoulder, her expression bemused. A damp tendril clung to her cheek and she swiped at it.
“I haven’t missed my room . . . but I have missed this tub,” she murmured.
He almost laughed in sheer relief. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes. It’s delightfully large. As you can see. And very comfortable for a long soak.”
“It is. I’ve enjoyed it very much.”
“Hmm. Good. That’s good. I’m glad,” she said. “But why . . . why exactly . . . are we here?” she asked. “In our clothes?”
He wiped at the bead of sweat trickling down his nose and reached for the faucet, turning it off. Dani’s dress tangled around his legs, and he’d lost two buttons on his shirt in the scuffle. It gaped, revealing his sodden undershirt beneath.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” he asked.
She puzzled over that question and then laid her head down against him again.
“Zuzana is scared. That’s why she said those things at breakfast. She’s afraid I will leave her. Like my mother did.”
“And that’s the last thing you remember?” he asked, dumbfounded.
“No,” she said. “But now . . . now you’re going to think she’s right.”
Breakfast seemed like a lifetime ago, and it was hardly relevant to the current situation. “Right about what?”
“That’s never happened to me before,” she whispered, not answering him directly. “I promise I’m not crazy.”
“What’s never happened to you before?” he pushed.
“I’ve never fainted before.” She stopped talking and burrowed down into him, the water sloshing over the side and hitting the floor with a wet slap.
“You’re going to have to do better than that, sweetheart. You scared the hell out of me.” His voice was sharp, but his hands were gentle as he lifted her off him, setting her back against the opposite side of the tub so he could assess her condition. So he could consider his own.
“I’m sorry, Michael,” she said, but it wasn’t an apology he was looking for. It was an explanation.
“You grabbed hold of those drapes . . . and something grabbed ahold of you.”
“It wasn’t like that. Not exactly.” She began to shake again, and he turned the water on once more, pulling her beneath the spout so the hot water streamed down her back.
“Tell me what you saw,” he insisted.
“I didn’t see anything.” She shook her head, but her denial was belied by the fear in her eyes. “It was dark. And cold. And there were no names. Or faces, or memories. There was no love or life.”
“You said, ‘He doesn’t know who he is,’” he reminded her, keeping his voice hard. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to draw her into his arms and stroke her back and kiss her brow. But that would solve nothing. He turned off the spigot again.
“There were no names,” Dani said, shifting and sinking down so her shoulders were below the surface. She clung to the sides, her knees drawn up against her chest, and he stretched out his legs, bracketing her between them again.
“He is many people,” Malone challenged softly. “You said that too.”
“I think that is what he believes.”
“What does that mean, Dani?” He was trying so hard to be patient, but he was lost.
“I don’t know. Maybe he is like Pavel. Maybe he is like . . . me.” She winced.
“Like you?” he repeated.
“Like a . . . Kos.”
“How so?” He frowned.
“Pavel described his ability—or ailment—as hearing voices. Vera described it the same way, but the voice she heard was always the cloth itself, telling her what it wanted to be. Pavel said the cloth yammered at him and stole all his ideas. He had a stroke and died three months after I came to live here, but I think he was mad long before that. Maybe the Butcher hears voices too.”
“Do you hear voices, Dani?” he asked. “Do you believe you are many people?”
“No. It isn’t like that for me. It has never been like that for me.” She was almost pleading with him.
“Well then. He’s not like you, now is he?” he said simply.
“No,” she sighed. “No. I don’t think he is. But he is odd, Michael. He is very . . . odd.” She sounded precariously close to tears, though her face did not crumple and her gaze did not waver.
Ah. He thought maybe he understood now. She wasn’t upset by what she saw—or not entirely. She was afraid of what he was going to think of it all. Good God.
“When I was young . . . I could see things others couldn’t,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Colors, mostly. Auras. I thought everyone could see them . . . until my mother explained that I was special.”
“Auras?”
“That was her word for it. I called them shadows, though they were colorful, and often not dark at all.”
“What kind of colors?” she breathed.
“Every shade and hue. Even colors that don’t have names. Everyone had their own. My mother’s was grass green. My father’s, a rusty red. Molly’s was violet . . . like the sky right before sunrise. I couldn’t see them all the time, but often enough that it was very normal for me. When my mother died, the colors went away. Or maybe I simply stopped acknowledging them.”
“You don’t see them anymore?”
“Sometimes I do. Yours is warm . . . amber . . . like sunlight on honey.”
She stared at him, dumbfounded, but there was a flush to her cheeks and a softness in her gaze.