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More important, Kaleb offered the sort of obnoxious encouragement via insult that Dante needed, baffling as it was. Her chosen Fonte and her chosen love spent their days frustrating the physical therapists and nurses who put them through their exercises and monitored their recovery, while tormenting each other in a bizarre contest to see who could express their suffering with the most creative use of swear words.

Dante, being bilingual, usually came out on top.

Thank Dea she’d barely touched him when his eyes first opened on the altar.

If she had, he might have died all over again.

When he spent the last of his healing power to save her, Dante had taken most of his gift with him as he left the mortal plane.The final remnant, the echo, transferred to her as he died, and she’d used it—with more than a little help from Dea—to coax his body back to the living. But his power hadn’t come with him.

Swallowing a lump in her throat, Alessa shouted a few teasing words of encouragement to Kaleb as he took a tentative step. He groaned and invented a new curse word, sending the nurse into a fit of giggles.

Watching Dante brace himself on the headboard of her bed, alone in his thoughts, Alessa urged the heat in the back of her throat to ease.

He wasalive.

She couldn’t touch him, at least not yet, but he was alive.

That was what mattered.

The nurse said something to Dante, and he shook his head, jaw clenched.

Alessa caught Kaleb’s eye, and he covered his forehead with the back of his hand in an exaggerated swoon. “Mercy! Nurse, this ghiotte is trying to murder me! Let me rest, beast!”

Dante hid a half smile as Kaleb accepted the nurse’s assistance and hobbled out of the room.

He lowered himself to the couch with a grimace, his head falling back with a sigh of relief.

“Can I get you anything?” Alessa asked.

“Nah, just come here,” Dante mumbled. “Promise I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

Alessa checked to be sure there was no skin visible between her gloves and sleeves before walking over. “I’ve heard that before.”

As she passed the open balcony doors, a cheer rose from the crowd below. They gathered daily in the piazza, hoping for a glimpse of their saviors on the balcony, so Alessa obliged everymorning and evening, while Kaleb insisted on being rolled to the window often to wave at his supporters.

Dante always refused. He didn’t know how to be celebrated or beloved. Another thing that would take time.

She curled up beside him, noting the dark smudge of exhaustion beneath his eyes. “You’ve been dreaming again.”

A shadow passed behind his eyes. “I’m not sure theyaredreams.”

Alessa frowned. “Meaning?”

“I think she’s trying to tell me something.”

“She?”

“Dea. My mother? Whoever it was. She was proud, like I was finally being who I was supposed to be, or something. But she needed me to know I wasn’t finished.” Dante stared at the ceiling. “The more time passes, the less sure I am about what I saw—heard—I don’t know what to call it. But she was trying to help us, to give us a clue.”

Alessa was still wearing her gloves, so she brushed a dark curl off his temple.

Dante leaned into her palm, his lips moving against the silk. “I think she wants me to find La Fonte di Guarigione.”

Alessa sat up. “It still exists? Then I’ll go right now and bring water back for you. You’ll be healed. Maybe you can go back to—”

“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Why not? I don’t care how far I have to go, I will. You could be healed, your power restored. And if you’re right, and Crollo is planning something worse, we need that water for the troops.”