I'm numb.

I'm responding, acting normal even, taking charge, making sure we don't get caught. On the outside, I probably look like myself as I talk Jacin down, tell Idyne to follow me while everyone packs, and drag the Man from the East all the way to the barn. When he talks at me, though, I don't hear him, and when Idyne ties his arms tight to a post, I don't care that he winces. The world pretends to be normal as we pick Aster back up and trudge through piled drifts all the way to the inn. The snow starts yet again, and the flakes pelt my face, but I don't feel them.

Heat washes over us as we open the Kitten's door, and I dully appreciate the release from winter's embrace. We drag Aster upstairs to his room and lay him on the bed. Idyne asks me about my arm, but I have other things to do, and she's the last person I want to talk to right now. I walk down the hall. Glassy-eyed faces pop into my mind. My steps pause.

Idyne lays a hand on my shoulder. I shrug her off and stride to the bathroom, trying to banish the images.

I scoop up a washcloth and plunge it in the basin's water. For some reason, I expect it to swirl red, but it doesn't. It stays clear, clear as crystals, clear as glass, clear and reflective as that silvered shard that thrust into the guard's—

I wring the washcloth out. I'm numb. I'm numb, and I'm happy to stay that way.

I brush past Idyne and go into Aster's room. He's still unconscious. I dab the damp cloth beneath his nose, wiping the blood away. My hand slips against his cheek. His skin is ice.

"Help me get him under the blankets," I say to no one in particular.

My hands work at pulling the covers out from under him, and then up again. I'm surprised to see it's Jacin's hands who join me, not Sean's. Where is Sean? I don't know, and I don't raise my head to look.

Jacin sets his hand on my shoulder, little finger brushing my neck. My skin crawls. I don't want to be alone with him, but he's here, and he's helping me, and he's not turning us in. Maybe we're not alone after all, either. Maybe Sean is here.

Now I glance up to look. Jacin's hand slips off. The room is dark but for the moonlight. Sean is nowhere to be seen.

Idyne is nagging me about my arm again. Aster's face is clean. I wave Idyne away and attend to my own injury. I don't need her hands on me any more than I need Jacin's.

I wish Sean were in here.

I ignore Idyne's worried gaze. The cut isn't that deep. It just stings. I lay the washcloth over it to help the blood coagulate. Yes, I'm fine, I tell them. They ask more than once. Yes, I'm fine. I just want you to go away. I don't tell them that.

They seem to figure it out, though. They leave, shutting the door behind them.

I should go too. Get some sleep in my own bed. Rest. I didn't do much of that last night.

But Aster's sleeping face looks troubled. I'd hate for him to wake up alone, not knowing how he got there.

And I don't want to be by myself when I close my eyes. I steal a blanket and pillow from my room and curl up on the floor for the second night in a row.

I hope I don't dream.

* * *

I jerk awake from a dead sleep. My blanket tangles around me, and panic shoots through me as I struggle to recognize my surroundings. I'm on the floor, legs of a bed frame at eye level, orange quilt hanging down.

Orange quilt.

I'm in Aster's room.

A shaky breath of relief pushes from my lungs, and I sit up. The storm rattles outside the window, covering the world in a shroud of white. Tousled blankets cover a still-sleeping Aster. He looks more at ease now, the daylight taking most of the pallor from his face.

Untangling the blanket from my legs, I stand up. I'm too unsettled to go back to sleep. Might as well do something useful with myself.

I ease Aster's door closed and pad down to the kitchen. Catching a sound, I pause outside the closed door. Inside, soft sniffling is punctuated by a sob.

I gently press the door open.

Marcí slumps on a barstool at the counter, forehead resting against her palm as tears splash against the wood. Her shoulders shake as another sob escapes her.

I cross the room to lay a hand on her shoulder. "Missus Marcí, what's wrong?"

She looks up, wide eyes rimmed in red. "Leavi. Leavi, dear." She stands, hugging me. "Thank Lady Jacqueline and every star in the sky that you came back." Her voice is hoarse, and her tear-soaked face dampens my shirt. She clings to me, and I don't pull away.

"Missus Marcí, I'm okay. We're all okay." There's a growing dread in my stomach, though, that it's not us she's worried about.

She pulls back, searching my face. "You're a doctor, aren't you? Or an apothecary, a nurse, something? You fixed Idyne's leg," she offers hurriedly as though solidifying her claim.

"I—" I just cleaned and wrapped it, Marcí. The hope in her eyes freezes the words in my mouth. "I know a little. What's wrong, Missus Marcí?"

"It's—" She can hardly get it out. "It's Bukki," she finally manages.

She grabs my hand and pulls me toward her bedroom. "The cough has been going on for a while now, and he said that was all it was. Wasn't much I could do but hope it'd go away. Winter makes people sick, sometimes, you know?" She glances back at me. "I'd hoped it was just that, and he'd get better when spring rolled around. But yesterday, he was worse, and—" She breaks off, pressing a hand to her lips as she pauses in front of her door. "Last night, fever set in." Her grip on my hand tightens. "I don't know if he's going to make it through this."

Her eyes hold a deep fear. I meet their trembling gaze as steadily as I can manage. "I will do my absolute best for him, Missus Marcí."

She gives a shaky nod and releases my hand. We go in.

Bukki lies in bed, straight as a corpse in a coffin, skin the color of ash. Wet cloths drape over his forehead. His breath barely shakes his chest. It's no wonder Marcí's so worried about him. I couldn't be more convinced he's on death's door if the specter himself showed up knocking.

"Let's take the cloths off," I say.

Marcí looks at me alarmedly. "But the fever—"

I wave my hand. "The fever will..." Help neutralize the virus or bacteria, letting his immune system fend it off. Not able to explain that in her tongue, I say, "Help. It's natural," I explain when her startled doubt doesn't disappear. "Trust me. Your body knows how to take care of itself." Most of the time.

I move forward, examining him. He's asleep, a light sweat shining on his face. He mumbles softly but unintelligibly, then is silent once more. I lay my hand on his clammy skin and feel the fever beneath my fingertips.

As she takes the cloths off, I press my ear to his chest. His breaths are thick and labored, a low wheeze followed by a faint rattle. There's fluid in his lungs.

Pneumonia, then, more than likely.

I straighten, trying to keep my expression as neutral as possible.

Marcí's eyes search my face. "Do you know what's wrong? Can you fix it?"

I don't know what they call it here, if they even know what it is. I'm not sure that's what he has, but I don't have a better guess either.

I really hope I'm wrong.

"Leavi."

I refocus on Marcí. "I will try my best, Missus Marcí."

Her shoulders sag. "Oh."

I press my lips together, trying to think of something concrete we can do to help him. "He needs water—as much as he's willing to drink. Rest. Other than that..." I resist the urge to fiddle with my necklace. "We will just have to watch him." Watch him, hope, and make him comfortable.

Tears well in her eyes, but she nods, blinking them away. My heart aches, and I reach over to squeeze her hand. Together, we sit and wait at his bedside.

* * *

Three hours later, the only change is steady decline. His breaths are slow, rasping things that speak of death. It'd take either an extraordinary doctor or a miracle to save him now. It's late morning, and the other inhabitants of the inn move through the house, but all the sound is muted by falling snow.

We sit, Bukki's breaths becoming shallower and shallower, until Marcí shoots to her feet. My head snaps up.

Her jaw is set, tears shining in her eyes. "I'm not going to just let this happen. I'm not. He can't die. I—I won't allow it!" Picking up her skirts, she sweeps from the room.

"What? Marcí!" I hurry after her. "Marcí, where are you going?"

"To someone who can help." She passes through the living room, head sweeping back and forth. Not seeming to find what she's looking for, she hurries up the stairs.

"Who?" I ask.

She reaches the top of the flight, and I manage to catch up. Just outside his room, Aster closes his door, cloak already swung on—as if anyone could leave in this blizzard. He stops short when he sees us, worry clouding his gaze. "What's wrong?"

Marcí strides up to him. "I need your help."

"With what?" The heavy bags under his eyes deepen.

"My husband. He's sick. You're a wizard. You can fix him." Her voice cracks. "Please."

His eyes widen, and his fingers run through his hair. "I—" His hand drops into a pocket of his cloak. He takes a deep breath. "I'll try."

Marcí throws her arms around his neck, and surprise fills his face. She pulls away just as quickly and tugs him downstairs before I can say anything to either of them. I follow them down, but unease tugs at the back of my mind.

We enter the room. Aster steps closer to the bed, examining Bukki with the confidence and compassion of a doctor to a sick man. He turns to Marcí. "Do you know what he is suffering from?"

Her tear-stained face pinches together, head shaking silently.

Aster nods as if he already assumed as much, returning his attention to Bukki. He considers the man, then pulls out his spell book, flipping through the pages as he thinks.

After a few minutes, he nods once and turns to Marcí. "Can you remove his shirt, maedame?"

Confusion flits across her features, but she bustles to her husband's bedside and tugs his tunic off. Aster nods his thanks and begins preparing his materials.

He lays his wooden bowl on the bedside table, sprinkling powder and dashing a bit of oil into it. Removing a tiny knife from his cloak, he slices the palm of his hand open. Marcí hisses in sympathy, and I wince, but Aster doesn't flinch. He leans forward, concentrating on getting the trickle of blood into the bowl. He begins to massage the mixture with his fingers, turning it into a thick red paste. He continues to mix the ingredients until he nods, satisfied. He wipes his fingers off on the inside of the bowl.

Beginning his incantation, he dips the tip of his pointer finger into the bloody sludge, swirling it around in steady circles. His motions are measured with his words, almost like a dancer swaying to a song. He turns back to Bukki, dripping one single dot over the center of the sick man's heart. From there, Aster's finger moves out, painting lines and curves that radiate from the center-point, the meter of his words ever so steady though the volume increases.

I glance up from his work, surprised to see the strain already starting to show on his face. His movements are seamless, but his features are hard, forehead crinkled in concentration and effort. As he moves to collect more of the mixture onto his fingers, a telltale drop of blood gathers under his nose. He completes the drawing on Bukki's chest with a final spray of the mixture and sharp rise in volume. Slathering the remaining contents of the bowl onto his finger, Aster moves up to Bukki's head. Aster's breaths come harder now, the blood dripping freely from his nose, but he pays it no heed. His movements stay measured and precise.

The spell finishes with two wide swipes across Bukki's face. Aster's incantation reaches a shout, his voice clear and commanding despite the pain evident in his eyes. A heavy, charged moment hangs in the air like an echo.

The bowl clatters to the ground, and Aster follows it.

I rush to his side as Marcí crosses to Bukki's. Aster sprawls on the floor, no breath shaking his chest, no random impulse twitching his finger—nothing to evidence that life still inhabits his body. I drop to the floor beside him, frantic fingers searching for a pulse. Their shaky tips flit over his neck unsuccessfully, and I curse. Calm down, stupid girl! You're never going to find anything unless you get still.

Frustrated, I lean over his chest, ear pressed against the soft material of his cloak, trying, hoping, wishing desperately to hear anything. A breath, a beat, no matter how soft, just something. As I wait, panic seeping through my mind, I still can't hear—

No. Wait. There it is. A heartbeat, one quiet heartbeat, and then there again, like a determined little drummer in a marching band alone.

I breathe a sigh of relief, straightening. He's going to be okay. He just needs some rest. The spell took more out of him than he was expecting. That's all.

He's going to be okay.

Who exactly are you trying to convince, Leavi?

I call out for Jacin. He'll help me get Aster somewhere he can rest. Because that's all he needs.

Some rest.