Page 28 of The Dawn Chorus

It was an extensive wound, but stitch by stitch, it was closing, smothering the glow of his blood. Now and again, lightning turned the room blue. Rain darkened the windowsill.

Warden endured my tender ministrations in silence. My stitches were askew, as usual, but pulled the skin together well enough.

‘You have a soft touch,’ he remarked. ‘For a criminal.’

‘Surprised?’ I drew the needle upward. ‘Criminals have the softest touches of all. Light-fingered pickpockets. Coiners and card-sharps. Even cutting a throat takes a certain finesse.’

‘You know this from experience.’

‘I’ve seen it done.’

‘Is it Jaxon Hall who revels in murder?’

‘No. Jax never gets blood on his hands,’ I said. ‘We do that for him.’

‘But you do not kill for him.’

It was a statement, not a question. ‘You know I’ve killed,’ I said. ‘Killing those two Underguards was what landed me here.’

‘Self-defence. Or accidental. I do not believe you have ever committed a cold-blooded murder.’

‘Stop making assumptions, or you’ll be my first.’ I moved another shred of his shirt. ‘It was the Underlord. In Flower and Dean Street. He murders voyants who piss him off and leaves the bodies there as warnings. I saw him do it to a courier.’ When I started on the next stitch, I was softer. ‘Even the Vigiles are afraid to cross Haymarket Hector.’

Warden looked over his shoulder at me. He was close enough for me to see every strand of light in his eyes.

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘do you believe the syndicate could ever be cleansed of such cruelty?’

‘Could the Rephaim?’

‘Perhaps with different leaders.’

‘Likewise, but a dethroning would cause untold chaos in itself. It could set off a war. Loyalists and reformers,’ I said. ‘Violence like that might not end for months. Years.’

Warden returned his attention to the flames.

‘Many years,’ he said.

The fire snapped and roared. I let myself get lost in the close work. Patience had never been my strong point, and the heat of the fire could have sent me to sleep, but the intricacy of this task – trying to sew him up without touching him, without being too rough – kept my focus as sharp as the needle. I was careful with the placement of my fingers, only ever letting them touch his shirt. By dint of care and concentration, I managed not to brush his skin.

All the while, he said nothing. Just sat there, through stitch after stitch, never flinching.

‘I am not well-versed in human expressions,’ he said at last, ‘but you seemed … exasperated when you saw me like this.’

‘I was.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if you get your throat ripped out, I’m leading this rebellion with no help from you. And I don’t think that’s fair.’ I tugged the last stitch tight. ‘Could you resist the urge to be a hero for just a few more days?’

‘I am sure I can manage that.’

‘Good.’ I snipped the thread. ‘All done.’

I returned the instruments to the box. Warden reached over his shoulder to the stitches while I massaged my aching fingers.

‘They may not be tidy,’ he said, ‘but they serve. Thank you.’ He gave his shoulder a roll. ‘How is your wrist, Paige?’

‘A little sore. I’ll live.’

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