“No, I need to get this hair off my neck. It’s driving me mad.” Inexplicably furious, I yanked the offending strands away from my sensitive skin. “But my arms, they’re so . . . heavy . . .” A yawn eclipsed the rest of my words, and my arms drooped. I sank back onto the bed. “I can’t seem to hold them up.”

He chuckled. “Is there something I can do to help?”

“You can braid it.”

The chuckle died abruptly. “You want me to—to what?”

“Braid it. Please.” He stared at me. I stared back. “I can teach you. It’s easy.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Please. I can’t sleep with it touching my skin.”

It was true. Between the scripture, the fever, and the lack of sleep, my mind whirled deliriously. Every brush of hair against my skin was agony—somewhere between cold and pain, tingle and ache.

He swallowed hard and stepped around me. A welcome shiver swept down my back at his presence, his proximity. His heat. He expelled a resigned breath. “Tell me what to do.”

I resisted the urge to lean into him. “Divide it into three sections.”

He hesitated before gently wrapping his hands around my hair. Fresh gooseflesh rose on my arms as he threaded his fingers through the strands. “Now what?”

“Now take an outside section and cross it over the middle section.”

“What?”

“Must I repeat everything?”

“This is impossible,” he muttered, trying and failing to keep the strands separated. He gave up after a few seconds and started over. “Your hair is thicker than a horse’s tail.”

“Hmm.” I yawned again. “Is that a compliment, Chass?”

After several more attempts, he successfully managed the first step. “What’s next?”

“Now do the other side. Cross it over into the middle. Make sure it’s tight.”

He growled low in his throat, and a different sort of chill swept through me. “This looks terrible.”

I let my head fall forward, relishing the feel of his fingers on my neck. My skin didn’t protest as it had earlier. Instead, it seemed to warm under his touch. To melt. My eyes fluttered closed. “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“How did you become captain?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“A few months after I joined the Chasseurs, I found a pack of loup garou outside the city. We killed them.”

Though no witch could ever claim friendliness with a werewolf, my heart contracted painfully at his pragmatism. His tone held no remorse, no emotion whatsoever—a simple statement of fact. As cold, barren, and improbable as a frozen seascape. Jean Luc would’ve called it truth.

Unable to muster the energy to continue the conversation, I sighed heavily, and we lapsed into silence. He braided steadily down my back, his movements quickening as he gained confidence. His fingers were nimble. Skilled. He seemed to sense the tension in my shoulders, however, because his voice was much softer when he asked, “How do I finish it?”

“There’s a leather cord on the nightstand.”

He wrapped the cord around the braid several times before tying it into a neat knot. At least, I assumed it was neat. Every aspect of Reid was precise, certain, every color in its proper place. Undiluted by indecision, he saw the world in black and white, suffering none of the messy, charcoal colors in between. The colors of ash and smoke. Of fear and doubt.

The colors of me.

“Lou, I . . .” He ran his fingers down my braid, and fresh chills washed over my skin. When I finally turned to look at him, he dropped his hand and stepped back, refusing to meet my eyes. “You asked.”

“I know.”

Without another word, he strode into the washroom and closed the door.

A Time for Moving on

Reid

“Let’s go somewhere,” Lou announced.

I looked up from my Bible. She’d visited the infirmary again this morning. Since returning from the foul place, she’d done nothing but sit on the bed and stare at empty air. But her eyes hadn’t been idle. No, they flicked back and forth as if watching something, her lips moving imperceptibly. Her fingers twitching.

Though I didn’t say anything, I feared the patients were beginning to rub off on her. One patient in particular, a Monsieur Bernard, worried me. A few days ago, Father Orville had pulled me aside to inform me the man was kept under constant sedation—and chained—to prevent suicide. Father Orville seemed to think Lou would suffer a shock when the inevitable happened.

Perhaps time away would do us both good.

I set aside my Bible. “Where do you want to go?”

“I want a sticky bun. Do you remember the patisserie where we first met? The one in East End? I used to go there all the time before, well . . . all of this.” She waved a hand between us.

I eyed her warily. “Do you promise to behave yourself?”

“Of course not. That would ruin the fun.” She hopped down from the bed. Fetched her cloak from the rack. “Are you coming or not?”

A sparkle lit her eyes that I hadn’t seen since the theater. Before the burning. Before, well . . . all of this. I eyed her carefully, searching for any sign of the woman I’d known the past week. Though her fever had abated quickly, her spirits hadn’t. It’d been like she was balancing on the tip of a knife—one wrong move, and she’d impale someone. Likely me.

Or herself.

But today she seemed different. Perhaps she’d turned a corner. “Are you . . . feeling better?” I asked, hesitant.

She stilled in tying her cloak. “Maybe.”

Against my better judgment, I nodded and reached for my own coat—only to have her snatch it out of reach.

“No.” She wagged a finger in front of my nose. “I’d like to spend the day with Reid, not the Chasseur.”

Reid.

I still hadn’t grown used to her saying my name. Every time she did, an absurd little thrill shot through me. This time was no different. I cleared my throat and crossed my arms, trying and failing to remain impassive. “They’re the same person.”

She grimaced and held the door open for me. “We’ll see about that. Shall we?”

It was a blustery day. Icy. Unforgiving. Bits of the last snowfall clung to the edge of the streets, where footsteps had turned it slushy and brown. I stuffed my hands into my trouser pockets. Blinked irritably into the brilliant afternoon sunshine. “It’s freezing out here.”

Lou turned her face into the wind with a grin. Closed her eyes and extended her arms, the tip of her nose already red. “The cold stifles the reek of fish. It’s wonderful.”

“That’s easy for you to stay. You have a cloak.”

She turned to me, grin widening. Pieces of her hair tore free of her hood and danced around her face. “I can swipe you one, if you’d like. There’s a clothier next door to the patisserie—”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Fine.” She burrowed deeper into the folds of her cloak. Charcoal. Stained. Fraying at the hem. “Suit yourself.”