Page 47 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
“What happened to her?”
“Dislocated shoulder,” Lucian answers.
It isn’t the full answer, yet I wince, understanding the pain that seeps through my shirt like blood.
“Okay.” I nod, turning to get my herbs and leaving the suite.
I stay a few paces behind them as we walk through the academy, Lucian carrying Desdemona in his arms. She nuzzles her head into his shoulder.
And Luciancares. It emanates from him like smoke from a bonfire. It reeks so strongly, I could never miss it.
It clings to me.
It’s hard seeing that even someone as calloused as Lucian can care for a person. Even someone as scared as Desdemona can reciprocate. I must be the most wounded of us all, because I don’t know that I could ever be on either end. That is why I stay a few paces behind as we walk. It is why I watch from afar.
It’s the best I can do.
I think of the boy. If he were tangible, would he hold me like this?
His voice fills my mind,“I would hold you however you wished me to.”
“You make a compelling offer.”
We make it to the Royals’ room, and Lucian lowers Desdemona on the couch. I watch, pretending I’m not, as he tucks her hair behind her ear. Their eyes meet, and my heart picks up its pace.
There’s familiarity and fear in their gazes, but more than that, adoration. They hide from it, yet neither can deny it.
They are a seesaw, as one comes down, the other goes up. A dance, a game, and it’s one I want.
I shake my head, rushing to their side to do what I came to. Lucian breathes heavily beside me, not because he’s tired, but because he’s worried.
He doesn’t know what he’ll do if something happens to her.
I’d like to leave soon. People-watching is fun in spurts, but it grows weary over time, and I can only take so much.
Lucian has filled Desdemona’s wound with shadows, keeping her from bleeding out. For a moment, I only look. Wondering if someone would do that for me.
“Can you?” I finally ask, turning to Lucian, and he waves a hand. The shadows pour to the ground, regrouping with the rest scattered around the corners of the room.
I dip my gloved finger in valerian root powder and place it under Desdemona’s nose, telling her to inhale. With fleeting peace, Desdemona slips out of consciousness.
Working quickly, I begin to mend the flesh around the stab wound. Then I move to the burns. Nothing I do helps to cease the pain or refurbish the skin.
“How did she get the burns?” I ask, threads of green magic flowing from my bare palms… and doing nothing.
“There must have been poison on the blade.”
It doesn’t feel like a poison, but there’s no other plausible explanation. There’s a burn around the stab wound and on her palm. I try harder to heal her, but the ashen flesh continues to reject my power.
The sensation seeps into me, like water corroding metal, slowly burning through my skin.
Shaking my head, I say, “I can’t fix it.”
Lucian’s worry grows louder. In between the cracks of emotion, I can only feel how much he cares.
“Try again,” he says.
“Iamtrying!” I snap, dropping my hands.
