“Distract yourself,” she says. “Talk. Tell me something. Ask me something. Anything.”

“Who is your mother’s spy inside Ironrose Castle?”

“Fell siralla!” She smacks me on the forehead. “Stop worrying about that foolish prince!”

It’s so unexpected that I laugh.

She glances away, but her eyes are rueful. “He does not deserve your worry. Prince Rhen is not your ally.”

I do not want to think about Rhen. Lia Mara’s blood is sticky beneath my fingers, but I do not want to see how effectively I’m failing to heal her wound, either. I keep my hand wrapped around hers. “Tell me what you just said.”

A blush rises in her cheeks. “Ah … I do not believe there is a translation.”

“Now who is the liar?”

“Fell siralla.” Her blush deepens. “Stupid man.”

“I believe I liked it better when there was no translation.”

She laughs, and the sparks of light in my blood whirl and dance in response. Every instinct in me wants to force them across the spot where our skin touches, but I tell myself to wait, to be patient. To be gentle.

“How do you speak Emberish so well?” I say.

“I had tutors,” she says. “Mother says it is the height of ignorance and arrogance to not speak the languages of our border countries.”

That’s a rather frank assessment. “I’m sure our border guards were schooled, but any tutors in Ironrose were killed in the first season of the curse.”

“Truly? Jacob and Noah speak it so well.”

I shake my head. “They call it English. Their language is similar on their side.” I pause and turn the sounds of her words over in my head.

“Fell siralla,” I try.

She shakes her head. “Softer. Fell siralla.” The words fall off her lips without effort.

I try again, and she giggles. “Your words are so hard-edged. Softer.”

“Fell siralla,” I say, and this time she bites her lip to hide her smile.

She takes my free hand and brings it to her mouth to whisper against my fingertips. “Fell siralla.”

I barely hear the words. I am thinking about the softness of her lips brushing against my fingers, gentle as a butterfly. I am certain I have touched a woman’s mouth at some point in my life, but just now, none come to memory.

“Say it again.” My voice has gone husky.

“Fell siralla.”

Her fingers have gone slack on my wrist. I brush a thumb across her lower lip, and her mouth parts slightly. I find myself wondering what the line of her jaw feels like. The slope of her cheek. The curve of her ear.

Soldiers could burst from the trees this very moment, and I’d fall immediately.

“You have stopped practicing your pronunciation,” she chides, but her eyes are dancing.

“Stupid man,” I say dutifully.

She laughs against my fingertips—but it ends on a gasp. She pulls her arm free from mine.

“You did it.”

The blood is gone, along with the slice across her forearm. I take her hand and run a fingertip along the smooth skin there.

She shivers. “See? I knew you could be gentle.”

I want to touch her mouth again and prove exactly that.

“Do you think you could try it on Tycho?” she says.

Tycho. For a wild, crazy moment, I can barely remember who Tycho is, much less what I should be trying.

Stupid man, indeed. I cough. “Yes, I should try.”

“Will you wake him, do you think?”

I do not know. I have to shake my head to clear it, but Lia Mara seems to take that for an answer. I slip across the clearing to where Tycho sleeps. His upper body is bare, because he says a shirt pulls against the wounds when he sleeps. Despite the warmth in the air, his arms are tucked close against his body, and his breathing is slow and deep.

I drop to a crouch and put a hand lightly against his shoulder.

He jerks and tries to whirl. His eyes snap open, seeking danger.

I lift my hands. “Be at ease,” I whisper.

His eyes are a bit wild, and not quite awake. It makes me wonder what dreams haunt his sleep. “Grey—what—”

“There is nothing to fear,” I say. “I wanted to try to heal your wounds.”

“Oh. Oh.” He burrows back into the pine needles, pressing his face into his forearm. His breathing eases, but there’s a new tension to his body, as if he’s worried it will hurt. “Go ahead.”

I rest my hand against his shoulder again, as lightly as I can. The bruising is extensive, the worst of the damage stretching across his lower back. Some of the wounds are an angry red, and I know Noah worries about infection. I have never flinched from violence, but my gut tightens every time I see his injuries. I am responsible for this.

When I move my hand across a shallow lash mark, his breath catches, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t have to try,” I say quietly.

“No. Do it.”

A cold lick of wind rushes between the tree branches, and I know Iisak must be near. The sparks beneath my fingers feel more sure. I close my eyes and think of Tycho at Worwick’s. The way he begged for lessons in swordplay. The way he stepped in front of Kantor to stop him from hurting Iisak. The way he kept my secret, even at the risk of his own life.

My hand moves, my fingers drifting across broken skin. Tycho whimpers.

My eyes snap open. His are clenched shut, his jaw tight. Nothing is healed. A tear sits on his eyelashes. “Forgive me,” I say.

“Keep trying,” he whispers.

“Tycho—”

He swallows. “Keep trying.”

I hesitate before touching him again. It’s so much more damage than a tiny slice across the back of a hand.

“He is so trusting of you, Your Highness.” Iisak’s growl-soft voice draws my attention, and another cold breeze flickers between the trees. His black eyes gleam at me from the darkness. “Do not waste it.”

I close my eyes and put my hand against the worst of the marks. Tycho’s breathing shudders, but he keeps still. I don’t know if Lia Mara speaks or if I just imagine her voice. Gently.

Those sparks and stars flicker and wait. I turn my thoughts away from swordplay and violence. I think of Tycho grinning about winning the race to Jodi’s tavern. I think of him standing in the loft, promising to keep my secret. I think of my panic easing, how he was the first person I trusted after so long.

I’ll keep your secret, Hawk.

My eyes are closed, but the stars seem to fill my vision anyway, brightening the way they did in the courtyard. They’re everywhere at once. I want to grab hold of them and drive them into his wounds, the way I’d put a blade in an enemy, but now I realize that Lia Mara was right. This is a different kind of skill.

My hands brush over his injuries, and I let the stars dance along beneath my fingertips. Tycho gasps again, but I don’t stop. I trace every line of broken skin, every ridge of damage, every stitch placed by Noah.

“Ah,” breathes Iisak, and I shiver again. “You have discovered the knack for it.”

A sob breaks from Tycho’s throat, and I snatch my hand away. The stars flicker and die. I open my eyes. “Forgive—”

I stop short. The bruising is gone. The wounds have left scarring, like mine did, but the skin is closed. Tycho braces his forearms against the ground, then rises to his knees. Tears have made lines in the dirt on his face, and he’s breathing as hard as he does when we race across the city.