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“What is, Lo?”

“To give my life. If you ask me to.”

I shook my head at her, cradling her face in my hands. She was so pale, so frail, like she was a drawing fading under sunlight.

“I want you to stay with me,” I said, a quaver in my voice.

A slow, sleepy smile crossed her face. “As you wish.”

She tried and failed to keep her eyes open, and in a moment, her head lolled against the pillow.

Beside the bed, I’d cast aside her knapsack. Perhaps there were more useful supplies among her things, something I’d forgotten. I unwound the little knot keeping the bag shut and set aside items one by one. Extra stockings and a chemise. The flask of water we shared. Then, a journal. Deep red, with the shape of a rose stitched into the leather. I’d given it to her a few days ago.

I cast one quick glance back to her. Her chest rose and fell in loud, slow breaths.

She was smarter than I was. She knew more about the world, about survival. Perhaps among her poems she’dpenned down some of her other, more practical thoughts. Gods willing, she’d writtensomethingabout wound care. I laid the book open upon my lap and flipped through its pages, filled with as much spidery text as could be crammed onto each page. With a smile, I remembered teaching her how to write. My hand upon hers, gently correcting the way she held the quill-pen. The first word I taught her wassun, in both the southern and northern tongues, sol and soleil. And she had looped the word together over and over across the page, a rare smile growing across her face the more graceful the strokes became.

I pushed back another page and found the words aligned differently. Little phrases, almost like a list.

In my head, I could compose for her

A thousand lovely sonnets;

Strung together like diamonds and pearls,

Perfect couplets and rhymes,

But my words run dry before her.

I wish above all earthly things

That I could speak to her

And share with her completely

All manner of my heart’s musings.

In an instant I slammed the book shut, my eyes round as dinner plates.

Her poetry, hersacredpoetry.

About agirl.

I hesitantly flipped the book open once more onto a random page and came across another line.

The one I love with flowers in her hair

Blooming under sunlight—

“Goodgods,” I whispered, closing the book and pressing it to my chest.

Love poems. All these years, she’d never spoken of such things, despite my musing about romance and true love and all that I had read about in storybooks. She had always listened carefully, but never contributed anything; if she found anyone handsome, she didn’t tell me so. I thought that perhaps romance was simply something she did not care for. I would have supported her if this had been the case. But she’d never had anything to say on the matter.

She kept her heart hidden so deeply, her eyes stony and stoic, but I always knew that beneath her severe, knightly face lay a churning storm of emotions.

This, though. These words. They spoke oflove.

I wondered for a moment who the girl she wrote about could be—who she knew well enough to love in the barracks. Except for that boy, Carlos, I hadn’t a clue as to who her friends were.