Chapter 214

The hour between then and the sound of small feet in the corridor stretched like dough—elastic, sticky, necessary.

Twice more the nausea rose and receded.

Once I dozed for three breaths and dreamed of reeds whispering in a language that had too many vowels.

Then Aethel slipped in again, eyes soft in a way she reserves for wounded wolves and foolish boys.

“They’re ready,” she said. “In the warm r