Page 63 of The Black Table
It wasn’t just wine, I realize.
Someone gave me something.Slippedme something.
All at once, it feels impossibly hot in the bathroom. I swerve back into the bedroom, but that’s no better. It’s stuffy. Nauseating.
I need air. Cold night air.I latch onto the idea like a starving man in sight of food, and all but sprint down the hallway, the skirts catching between my legs, the hem nearly tripping me as I fly down the stairs two or three at a time, barely seeing anything. I sprint, pell-mell, out into the cold, and my stupid, slender high heel catches on something I can’t even see.
Pain shoots up my ankle as I tumble to my knees in the ivy of the courtyard. My fingers find purchase, dirt and vines, and I clutch at them, desperate for something real, something grounding.
Somewhere at the edge of the universe, I hear footsteps. A voice.
“Gwenna?”
I lift my head barely. My vision is swimming, pouring over itself like spilled ink.
“What are you—oh my God.”
I’m about to topple forward, but a hand steadies me. He catches me, his arm firm and steady on my shoulder, and the last thing I see is the full moon and pair of bright blue eyes.
Then darkness.
SIXTEEN
LANZ
I slaminto the door of Camlann House with my full body weight.
And hers.
She’s like a furnace in my arms, a tangle of limbs and red silk. I can manage, but she’s heavy with her muscles slack. Her forehead is dotted with sweat. But she’s breathing.
No one appears to be on the first floor—which, thank God. Maybe it was stupid to bring her here, but it was either that or crash into Broceliande Hall and surprise all of its female residents, and somehow I didn’t think that’d be a good idea.
Instead, she’s here. In my arms.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper.
She says nothing coherent. Just murmurs something and nestles her head against my chest.
My heart kicks at the movement, pulse skittering into every limb. It’s an accident, I know, a reflex—she hardly knows who she is, let alone who I am.
But…
But she’s so incrediblylovely.
And God help me, I could hold her likethis forever.
No sooner do I think it than my arms tense, buckling a little as I strain to stay upright, keep her balanced. Ican’thold her forever, not like this, not physically.
Slowly, slowly, I walk to the living room, to the velvet couch. There, I lower her, even slower, more careful, release one arm from behind her shoulders and the other from under her knees so that her head lolls onto the pillow.
As I do, the edge of her jaw trembles, her teeth giving a faint click-click-click.
Chills. She’s cold.
In a single move, I whip off my jacket, stripping my arms out of the sleeves so I can lay it over top of her. It’s not a great blanket, but it’s the best I can do right now.
Now I’m breathing hard myself. Look down at her, her breathing steady but shallow, her skin paler than usual.
