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His head snapped up, eyes wide. “What?”
“What if we got them settled in here, safe and a little warmer, then . . . well . . . just slipped away? They couldn’t follow. Sparrow would feel too obligated to take care of Condor.”
“Damn, Emu. I didn’t know you had it in you to be so cold.”
55
Thomas
Iwoketothesoundof nothing.
There were no gears grinding in the distance, no muttered prayers, no boots on stone. There was only the rustle of hay settling beneath me and the muted breath of those sleeping nearby. It took me a moment to remember where I was—what this stillness meant. I blinked into the pale light leaking through the barn’s planks, my breath curling in the cold like something trying to flee.
We were still in Hungary, still fugitives, but for the first time in weeks, I felt like we might have outrun the shadow.
My back ached from sleeping on the ground, and my shoulder pulsed in time with my heartbeat. The pain was dull now, not screaming. I’d grown used to it, but this morning it felt . . . contained. That had to be Will’s handiwork, I thought. The bandage wrapped snug around my wounded wing, holding everything together in a way I couldn’t.
I lay there for a while, watching the motes of dust swirl in the slant of dawn light. I didn’t feel hungover like one who’d partied the night away, but my head was far from clear. My body wanted to sleep again, to sink into the illusion that we were just travelers tucked in for warmth, but my fuzzy mind wouldn’t rest.
I turned my head.
Sparrow was curled near one of the far walls, her coat draped like a blanket around Eszter, who slept nearby. The girl lay in a knot of limbs, her arms pulled to her chest, her dark hair matted from sweat and hay. Even in sleep, she looked alert and ready to run.
No child should have to learn that instinct.
Egret was a few feet from them, slumped against a crate. His arm was tucked into his coat—an odd angle I knew meant he’d bandaged it awkwardly in the dark. When had he injured himself? How bad was it?
I’d ask later.
And Will—God—he was half sitting, half leaning against the barn post behind me, chin resting on his chest, mouth slightly open. He still held watch, even in sleep.
I moved my hand toward him, intending to reach, to reassure, but the movement twisted my shoulder and I winced, gritting my teeth. Pain snapped through me, jagged and immediate. I gasped through my nose and waited for the wave to pass. When it did, I pulled in a slow breath and forced myself upright, bit by bit, bones groaning in protest.
Will stirred.
His eyes blinked open and found me instantly. A mixture of panic and relief flashed across his face before he could smooth it away.
“Morning,” I rasped, my throat achingly dry.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” he whispered.
“I was. I woke up. That’s how mornings work.”
His mouth quirked, but the worry didn’t leave his eyes.
“Pain?”
“Always.”
He shifted toward me, brushing the hay from my shoulders with fingers gentler than the wind. “Looks like the bandage held.”
“It’s a lot better than it was.” I nodded. “I actually slept last night, deep and dreamless. I’d almost forgotten how good a night’s rest feels.”
Will leaned over and pressed a kiss to my forehead. His lips were warm and gentle, the perfect salve for the aches that plagued me.
A soft groan came from the corner where Egret slept. He shifted beneath his coat, then hissed and swore under his breath. “Bloody nail,” he muttered, flexing his hand as he sat up. “Rust and splinters—just what I needed to make this spa weekend perfect.”
I gave him a look. He winked. His other hand clutched his bandaged palm, cradling it like a fragile egg. The gauze was no longer white or red. Blood had soaked it through and turned to a vile color somewhere between rust and oil.