Page 56 of A Resistance of Witches

“Let me see that.” She crossed the room and sat on the bed next to him, taking one of his hands in hers.

“What are you doing?”

“Healing these. It won’t take me a minute.” She laid her fingertips on his palm, and was about to speak the words, when Henry pulled away.

“Don’t.” He swallowed, then looked down at the bloodied skin of his palms. “I’m sorry. Just…thank you. But don’t.”

She could feel the warmth of him, sitting this close. She could see the muscles in his neck and jaw, straining to keep him from falling apart. She looked at his injured hands and at her own bloody palms. She reached out and touched the tips of Henry’s fingers with her own, gently, so as not to cause him any more pain. She was sure he would pull away from her at any moment, but he never did. Instead, he expelled one long, unsteady breath, and reached back, caressing her fingertips. They sat quietly for a few minutes, neither of them looking at the other.

“What was he like?” she whispered.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lydia saw Henry’s lips lift in a smile. “Funny. Smart, but never snobby. He always watched out for me. Took an interest, gave me a job when nobody else would, made sure nobody gave me a hard time. He was…” He took a stuttering breath, and Lydia saw his throat straining against the pain.

“What else?”

Henry took a moment to collect himself, weaving his fingers more tightly with hers.

“What else?” she asked again.

•••

He talked fora long time, the words flowing faster and easier the longer he spoke. It seemed like a relief, like he’d been desperate to tell someone, anyone, about his friend. Sometimes he laughed, relating some tale of René’s many eccentricities. Once or twice the grief seemed to sweep up all at once and overwhelm him, and when that happened, Lydia would wait, not speaking, until he regained his composure and continued.

When he finished, Lydia rested her head on his shoulder, their hands still intertwined as they sat together in silence.

“Thank you,” Henry said softly.

“For what?”

“For being here.”

She tilted her face up to look at him. He was beautiful. Square jaw and soft eyes, large hands with long fingers, the kind that seemed to belong more to a pianist than a scholar. He looked back at her, their faces so close that she could see the flecks of copper in the deep brown of his irises, and Lydia felt the air become charged.

Something shifted almost imperceptibly between them. Henry’s hand drifted toward her cheek, his thumb making soft circles on her jaw. His eyes lingered on her mouth. She felt his heart beating in his fingertips, or maybe that was hers, she wasn’t sure. His nose grazed hers, and she felt a rush of heat, low in her stomach. A warm, hungry need.

“Lydia,” he whispered, and the sound of her name on his lips made her breath catch. “I—”

Suddenly, he took a sharp breath and stood, the change so abrupt it left her dizzy.

“Henry?” She rose, too, alarmed. His posture had gone rigid, and he was staring at something in the corner, his breath gone fast and shallow. She tried to put one hand to his cheek, but he flinched, and she stopped. Lydia turned to see what had startled him so, but when she followed his gaze, there was nothing. When she turned back, he was blinking at her, as if he’d just woken from a nightmare.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I—” He took one step away from her, and then another. “Forgive me. That was…” He swallowed, then shook his head, trying to steady himself. “It’s late. We should…” He glanced toward the door.

“Oh.” Lydia felt a flood of embarrassment wash over her. She couldn’t understand what had happened. Was it possible she could have misunderstood so completely? She looked down, smoothing the wrinkles fromher skirt. “Yes. Of course.” She went and stood by the door, looking back in the hopes that he would say more, but he wouldn’t even look at her. She felt her stomach sink. She opened the door. “Well. Good night, Henry.”

He opened his mouth, and for a moment, she was sure he was going to explain. Then she saw his jaw tense, and it was as if a wall had gone up around him.

“Good night, Lydia.”

•••

Lydia made her way quietlyback to her room, shame and desire and bewilderment all twisting endlessly inside her. She noticed the heat in her cheeks, the soft pulsing in her fingertips as she closed the door behind her, the way they tingled slightly where she and Henry had touched.

TheGrimorium Bellumwas there, waiting for her. It greeted her with a surge of excitement, humming and chattering in its own strange language. Lydia listened to it for a moment, to the way it seemed to respond to her. Its presence felt seductive, almost loving.

She hesitated, then pressed the bloodied skin of her palm to the cover.

She stayed that way, feeling theGrimorium Bellumgrow warm and content under her touch. It made her feel powerful, important. She tuned herself to that sensation, observing as it bloomed into mania, making her head ache.

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