Page 57 of The Ruin of Eros

I say nothing to that. What’s to say? What does it matter to me, what he regrets or doesn’t?

“I will never know what happened to my family,” I say finally. “And they will never know what happened to me.” I feel my voice growing fainter, and greyness starts to cloud my vision.

“For now, Psyche, you must rest,” the demon’s voice says. “Your body needs it. Rest, and I will be here when you wake.”

The last words are all but lost. They float as if on grey mist, and I fall into a dreamless sleep.

*

I wake and sleep many times, and whenever I wake either he or Aletheia is there. Mostly, though, it is him. They feed me broth, and some sort of nectar, and there is always some new poultice or compress, the smell of strange herbs and ointments.

“Drink this,” they say, and I do. Whether it is days or hours or weeks that pass, I could not say.

And then I wake, and the room seems brighter than before. Sunlight is streaming through the windows, and this time it does not hurt my eyes. I am alone, but only for a short while. The door soon opens, and when he sees me awake, he hurries in, his black cloak swirling around him like water.

“How do you feel?”

I hesitate, making a quick inventory of my limbs.

“Tired, but there is only a little pain.”

“Indeed? Our remedies may be helping more than I expected.” I see his hood shift toward the window.

“You have slept for a day and a half.”

Is that all? He could have told me years.

The demon leans forward, and I shiver as he unwraps the bandages. I stare at his hands, the wiry golden hairs on the backs of them. His bronze skin seems to cut the air with light, and his grip is strong and sure. One palm cradles my leg as the other hand unwinds the bandage, and I feel the warmth of him, the weight of my limb suspended in his grip. I can feel each of his fingertips and the skin of his palm, and smell his wood-and-honey scent.

I think a sigh escapes my lips, and I clamp my mouth shut.

“I will check the bones.” He clears his throat. “If you do not object.”

I hesitate, then nod, though I’m not sure what he means. Gently he pushes my sleeve back to my shoulder, then moves a hand slowly down my arm, as though his skin is listening to mine. I stare at him.

“You can…feel, what’s inside?”

He ignores me. He seems distracted: I think at first he is about to deliver some ill news, but I can read him better than that now. It’s not dismay I’m witnessing, but surprise.

“What is it?” I say.

He doesn’t answer, just moves his palm to my leg.

“May I?”

When he skims his hand along the skin I bite down, because although the sensation that shoots through me is not pain, it’s just as vivid. A shiver so keen and bright, it’slikepain.

He sits back then, and I can feel his stare.

“Your bones,” he says slowly, “are healing extraordinarily well. Or at least, extraordinarily fast.” He pauses. “If you continue like this, perhaps in a few days you could be walking again.”

I stare at him. In my fever, did I misremember? I thought he told me I might never walk again; that if I did, it would likely be a long road.

“A fewdays?” I say. “That is all?”

His voice is halting.

“I admit, I am also surprised. Though I suppose…” He seems on firmer ground now. “My garden may have even greater healing powers than I realized. And Aletheia, too, is a talented nurse.”

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