"Well, it's certainly doing its best to try. Why in Fates haven't you let someone heal you?"
"I fail to see how that question has any pertinence to your business here this morning." He closed his eyes and for a moment Valeda was struck by how fragile he looked. Not just sick, but frightened, as though all of Magnellum were crushing down on him. "Since you failed to leave a name with the manager, you have me at a disadvantage."
"Valeda Quinlan. Of the
Tormey Regular
."
His eyes snapped open. The withering glare he gave her was neither sick, nor fragile, and she realized at once her mistake. She took an involuntary step back, though he hadn't moved from his position.
"You are either incredibly clever, or dangerously stupid." His voice and demeanor were just as cold as the flecks of snow peppering her face.
"We could try something more flattering than that," a cultured voice said from the doorway. "You are a gentleman, after all."
Trying not to show her surprise, Valeda turned to the balcony doorway. A freckled man with curly, orange-blonde hair leaned casually on the doorframe, his highly tailored clothing giving him away at once.
"My Lord Bartholomew Kelemen-Feverrette," she said, dipping into a quick curtsy.
"Well, at least you remembered to curtsy to him," Lord Agoston said with a scoff.
"He was not busy insulting me," she retorted.
"Yes, and you weren't plotting how to charm an interview out of him, either."
She flushed and glanced at the balcony railing. He had her there. "I won't deny hoping you would relate your adventure to me, Lord Agoston, but I really am here by the direction of the House Witch."
"Which House Witch?" Lord Feverrette asked.
"Elsie," Lord Agoston struggled to sit up. He grunted and hissed his way to a standing position, looking somehow paler as he straightened.
He was a good head taller than she was. She noticed this as he swayed, half turning toward his room. Lord Feverrette pushed himself away from the door. Winslow's first step was unsteady, and the second step sent him reeling. He toppled backward, directly into her, and Valeda's yelp of alarm was cut short as they both toppled to the ground.
The wooden porch rattled under the impact of their combined weight. Her left hip struck first, pain bursting into her awareness a split second before Lord Agoston's body smacked into her again. Something hard-likely his head-crushed her nose in a single, sickening snap.
After several moments of confused struggle, trying to determine whose limb belonged to whom, ignoring the pain throbbing out of the center of her face, with Lord Feverrette grunting in effort somewhere above her, Valeda finally sat still. Lord Agoston's head was in her lap, heavy and limp. By instinct, her left hand pressed against the oozing wound in his shoulder. Lord Feverrette crouched beside them, his concern evident as he stared at his friend.
"What are you waiting for?" she asked, unable to stop holding the man in her lap. "Heal him."
"He made me swear not to."
"He's bleeding to death!"
Lord Feverrette's face twisted into a conflicted scowl.
Had she been in a right state of mind, Valeda might have been able to see the oddity of the moment. While she'd done all manner of reports for the
Tormey Regular
, she had never once held a dying man in her lap. Help was literally an inch away, and yet, Bartholomew Feverrette still did not move.
"He's your friend!" she tried again.
"I know who he is!" Feverrette snapped. "But he made me swear . . ."
"To hell with your oath, sir!"
The look Feverrette gave her was hard and angry, but he suddenly grabbed hold of Lord Agoston. She'd seen healing done before, so the concentration on Feverrette's face wasn't a surprise. The sudden slam of pain, however, stole her breath. It was a deep pain, coursing from Agoston and into her own body, sinking into her bones. A sliver of coherency helped her realize that this had nothing to do with his shoulder. This was something else.
The ache intensified. She felt suddenly hot all over, as though she might combust if it continued. She didn't know when she'd closed her eyes, but she forced herself to open them again.
A purple mist clouded them, sparkling in the morning sun. She saw four bodies where she knew there should only be two. Bartholomew crouched over Winslow, his face contorted in surprise and determination. The other two forms were more like shadows, no facial features and yet, she could recognize them. She knew instantly that she was looking at their Talents, though the rational side of her said it was impossible.
Witch-Born magic wasn't really seen, just the affects when the user accessed it.
The alarming thing, beyond the burning pain, was that these Talents looked like they were fighting. Valeda watched them churning about in the mist until her vision dimmed.
***
Frowning, Winslow sat up. Melted snow soaked through his dressing robe and trousers, freezing his left hip in an uncomfortable manner. That discomfort, however, paled to the sudden realization that he was healed. He rotated his shoulder, stripped the robe away from it, and searched for the wound.
A crescent shaped scar ran from his collarbone to his shoulder, jagged and puckered a deep pink. Running his fingers over the soft skin, Winslow fought between joy and horror. The jumble of bodies on his balcony was an inch deep in snow, testifying that they had been there for quite some time. Bart and the Quinlan woman were both passed out, tangled together on top of his own body.
He knew, without looking, that they were alive and not dead. He could hear their heartbeats, steady with slumber; could see their soft puffs of breath through the frigid air.
Winslow called on his Talent.
Deep in the recesses of his core, his magic still slept. But there was a sense that it had been used recently. He could feel the residual effects of it in his body, the healthy strain of muscle and quiet clarity of mind. But he could also feel the Wild in him. It was a constant purr in his blood stream, just out of his reach and yet, tauntingly close.
Shifting carefully, Winslow gathered the woman first. The snow stood out in her reddish-brown hair, looking somehow soft when it connected to her. Everywhere else it was cold and sharp, but when it came in contact with Valeda Quinlan, snow itself relented. Winslow had noticed, and appreciated, the intelligent beauty who had come to interrogate him in spite of the pain he'd been in. As he lifted her, small weight pliant in his arms, he got an even closer view. A perfectly oval face framed by dark curls, dark eyelashes, short but prominent against the fair skin. Her mouth was a thin, pink line, the same shade as his freshly discovered scar, and he was tempted beyond all reason to kiss it.
He frowned, shoving that impulse firmly away. Carrying her into the room, he laid her on the bed and went to retrieve Bart. His friend was not as easily lifted. Grunting and struggling, Winslow managed to drape Bartholomew's arm over his shoulder and drag his limp form into the warmth of the room. He took one step toward the bed and stopped.
Bart would not thank him if he woke up in bed with a woman who was not his wife. Innocent though it may be, Bartholomew Kelemen-Feverrette took great pains to ensure his honor could never be called into question. Redirecting his feet, Winslow lugged Bart to the settee on the other side of the room. It was a ridiculously flowery contraption, obviously meant to appease the gentler sex by way of aesthetics, and located in the coffee nook. He tried to lower his friend gently, but Bart outweighed him by at least ten pounds and was taller by several inches. His friend slipped from his grasp and collapsed into the settee, every bit as unconscious as when Winslow had picked him up. Winslow suspected Bart would now have a bruise on the left side of his head.
Wincing apologetically, Winslow arranged Bart into a more comfortable position and straightened. He stepped back and surveyed his work, looking from Valeda to Bart and back again. Satisfied, he harrumphed and turned to the bathing nook. It didn't look like either of his guests were likely to wake soon and he'd been too injured to attempt a bath when he'd arrived. Honestly, he didn't care if Miss Quinlan woke while he was bathing.
It would serve her right for her impertinent behavior
, he thought.
He still wasn't certain why she was unconscious. By all appearances, she was Untalented. He assumed that he'd knocked her senseless when he fell over.
It seems the most plausible reason
, he thought, as he turned the brass knobs and started the bath. Pipes rumbled against the wall just before steaming water burst from the faucet, pouring into the copper tub.
Taking his time, Winslow shut the balcony doors, closed the drapes, double-checked on his two slumbering guests, and returned to the tub. It was halfway full by the time he stripped off the dressing robe. Deciding it was best to maintain some form of modesty, he turned his back on the room before slipping out of his trousers and stepping into the bath. He groaned as his body submerged into the warmth and he closed his eyes.
"Mother, Maiden and Crone," he muttered.
Inch by beautiful inch his muscles relaxed. Winslow scrubbed travel, illness and dried blood off his body, reveling in the feeling of being clean again. He knew he was being silly. He'd never paid this much attention to a bath before, but suddenly every little pleasure in life was monumentally important.
His stomach growled, startling him with its loud protest.
Reluctantly, Winslow unstopped the tub and got out. Snagging his dressing robe again, he checked on Valeda and Bart, but neither had moved. He only got the robe halfway on before the scent of stale sweat and blood assaulted him. Offended, he dropped the garment and searched the room for an alternative.
His eyes found Bart's travelling trunk at the base of the bed. Given that the dressing robe had been leant to him, Winslow doubted Bart would be upset if he borrowed something else. Still naked and dripping, he moved to open the trunk, not caring about the small puddles he left in his wake. It wasn't until he had selected a pair of pants and a shirt from the trunk that Winslow recognized the oddity of the moment.
He was nude and he wasn't alone.
Even though his company was sleeping, polite society dictated that he at least keep a modesty wall between himself and the woman. Bart's presence didn't matter over-much. The university showers had little privacy, after all. But poor Valeda Quinlan would be scandalized to know he'd wandered about in such a state.
Quickly donning the pants and shirt, Winslow shut the trunk and sat on it. His stomach growled again but he didn't move. There was something altogether wrong with his thinking process. Winslow was known as a flirt and a bit of a cad, or he had been up until eight years ago, but he was also a man of honor. The idea of flaunting his naked self across a room was shocking, appalling, but a disjointed part of his psyche kept asking why.
Why?
he thought again.
Because it was wrong.
But why was it wrong?
He hadn't been born with clothes on. Why was the wearing of clothes such an integral part of society? Aside from the sumptuary laws that showed the station of the person wearing the garments, Winslow was bereft of an answer. There was warmth, of course. Though, for the first time since he could remember, Winslow didn't mind the cold.
It feels natural
, he thought.
Like it ought to be.
His stomach growled a third time and Winslow stood up. He moved to the bell-pull and tugged, still puzzling over his own train of thought. There was something very wrong here and he knew it. He waited for a knock on his door so that he could order something to eat.
Meat and potatoes
, he promised his stomach.
Lots of potatoes. And fruit. Any kind of fruit.
Just before the knock came, Winslow realized what was bothering him. His line of questioning had touched on the most basic law of society-that of wearing clothes. It was, by his estimation, one of the fundamental elements that separated man from beast. It was unquestioned. One simply did not go about Magnellum without clothes on, but in his mind, Winslow fought to hold on to this simple concept.
He opened the door slowly as the knock came again. For a long moment, he just stared at the servant who stood there.
"You rang, sir?"
Winslow blinked, remembering where he was, and relayed his order. The servant bowed and ran off, glancing once over his shoulder as he went. Winslow closed the door again.
"Fates alive," he whispered. "I'm losing my sense of humanity."
Valeda woke to the sound of a man's voice. Disoriented, she didn't move for a long moment and tried to determine where she was. She was safe, she knew that much, though she didn't know why she knew it. Soft pillows and warm blankets held her snug and secure, but she had no recollection of going to bed. In fact, the last thing she remembered was Lord Agoston falling on top of her.
"Oh, good. You're awake."
Blinking, she found him standing by the door, wearing pants that were too long and a shirt that was half unbuttoned. She was at once struck by a healthy sense of virility flowing from him. Valeda wasn't certain if she was relieved or horrified at the fact that he'd been healed. It was one thing to call on an injured man in order to get his testimony, it was quite another to be alone in his bedroom when he looked so . . . 'Good' was the first word that came to mind, but she shoved it away. 'Hungry' was the second thought, but that was even less appropriate and she scowled.
"On my honor, Miss, I apologize sincerely for the harm that came to you," Lord Agoston said quickly. "Naturally, I didn't wish to leave you on the porch."
They both looked at the balcony door as he added, "Gathering snow."
The awkwardness of their current situation hit her full force and she sat upright. The sudden movement, however, sent a needle of pain piercing through her temples. With a soft groan, she closed her eyes and held her forehead, counting her heartbeat in time with the throb in her head. She heard Agoston move and felt the bed sink at her left.