Page 41 of Heart’s Rescue

“Yeah,” he says, watching me with those brilliant blue eyes. “Yeah, I suppose sometimes it is.”

The kettle begins to whistle from its little nest in the fire, first slow and soft, but building into a throaty scream. Rowan uses a stick to nudge it from the flames. I run my tongue along the inside of my mouth as though I’m still tasting that forbidden word. Damn. Rowan is still smiling as he takes the top off the kettle and dips the edge of a bandage in the hot water.

“Guess it could be worse,” he says. “My brother’s got terrible magic.”

“Oh?”

I’m interested despite myself. What kind of magic would be considered terrible in this strange upside-down world?

“Yeah,” Rowan says, and the word is almost another laugh. “Illusions. Poor guy can create beautiful flowers.”

Rowan snorts as though illusion magic is a joke, and I try not to remember the rows and rows of floral illusions my mother destroyed one by one as I stood there watching, my hands and eyes burning from channeling difficult magic all night long. Rowan glances up at me, the steaming bandage in his hands, and raises an eyebrow.

“Uh, you’re gonna need to take the sweater off, too,” he says.

“Oh!” My back stiffens and my cheeks burn. “I know,” I say. “I just. I’m not wearing anything under this.”

A delicate pink creeps into Rowan's pale cheeks, and for the second time since I crawled into this shelter, I find myself thinking he’s almost attractive. Rowan makes a noise like he’s clearing his throat.

“Of course,” he says, turning back to his pack. A moment later he puts a neatly-folded bundle of faded red cloth on my lap.

“I’ll just wait outside,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes. His cheeks are still flushed as he brushes past me to push the entrance flap aside and crawls through.

Then it’s just me, the fire, and Rowan's empty bedroll. I wince and hiss as I start to pull the blue sweater off my arm. Blood has hardened around the torn wool on the sleeve; by the time the blue sweater is lying in a messy pile at the foot of my bedroll, the cut on my upper arm is bleeding again. I touch the skin gingerly. It hurts, of course, but it looks normal. It doesn’t look— what was the word Rowan used? Wrong?

Of course, how would I know what wrong looks like? I’ve only ever seen the scrapes and bruises of my childhood, and I’ve never even heard of anything like the shadow monster that just attacked me. Or the smoky tendrils erupting from the ground that Rowan used to chase the monster away.

I shiver; it’s cold in here, despite the fire. The fabric Rowan gave me is, of course, an old tunic that’s faded and gone soft as silk with washing. I pull it on. This must be his. It smells like him, that same, thick, rich scent that enveloped me when he wrapped me in his cloak after I’d begged for mercy. Some part of me notes that I should probably be disgusted to be sharing a man’s clothes, but feeling squeamish about wearing a clean shirt seems like a strange artifact from the Worlds Above. Right now, Rowan's tunic just makes me feel warm. Stars, the scent alone makes me feel warm.

I glance at the door flap, making sure I’m alone, and then bunch up a handful of cloth and bring it to my face. I pull in breath until I’m drowning in his scent, all warmth and strength and comfort. Maybe I can wear this shirt when we enter that thin place Rowan told me about. Maybe I can bring it back to the Worlds Above—

Okay, now I’m getting ridiculous. I drop the shirt, smooth out the wrinkles, and try for the love of the stars to act like I’m somewhat dignified and not some sort of crazed wild animal panting into a stupid shirt. Then I roll up the shirtsleeve, baring my upper arm. The monster’s slash across my left arm is still oozing blood; it’s disgusting. I clear my throat.

“I’m ready,” I call.