“I fear there is a toxin in your blood,” she said at last.
“What kind of toxin?” Gavriel demanded.
Her gaze grew puzzled. “I’m not certain. Perhaps you were infected in the Zamir Hills.”
Cathrynne wondered if she was to blame. He had been pure before. Did the kiss corrupt him? Her fists clenched and she made herself loosen them.
Haniel produced a glass vial from her robes.
“What is that?” Gavriel asked.
“Meltwater from the snow at Mount Meru,” she replied. “It has healing qualities.”
Gavriel nodded and accepted a few sips. Haniel set the vial on the bedside table.
“See that he drinks the rest of it,” she said, smoothing the dark hair back from his brow. The examination seemed to have exhausted his reserves. Gavriel’s eyes closed again, his breathing turning shallow.
“He will recover,” Haniel said serenely. “You should see improvement by morning. Have patience and let him rest.”
After she left, Cathrynne sniffed the vial. It smelled like plain water. She returned to her chair, studying his face. He did not seem improved. The skin beneath his eyes looked bruised, the bones too prominent, as if something was consuming him from within.
Another week crawled by, each day stealing more of Gavriel’s strength. She measured time by the sharpening angles of his face. Haniel’s promise had proven empty. He was fading faster now.
When she wasn’t watching Gavriel struggle for breath, Cathrynne paced the bedchamber, wondering which of his enemies had found a way to break the unbreakable archangel.
“He’s been poisoned,” she said for the tenth time. “I’m certain of it.”
“But when?” Yarl wondered. “And by who? I’ve prepared every morsel of food myself.”
The scent of a bland vegetable broth filled the room, but even that made Gavriel turn his face to the wall.
“He was fine when we first got back from Pota Pras,” Cathrynne said, chewing her lip. “It had to be afterwards.”
“Casolaba’s funeral?” Mercy suggested.
“I thought of that. No one came near him. I made certain of it.”
“He seemed well until he retired that night,” Mercy said. “Then he was sick by morning.”
“Could someone have broken into his room?” Cathrynne asked.
“I don’t think so. It’s on the top floor, and I was outside the door all night. I made certain the windows were locked before he went to bed.”
Yarl set the untouched broth on a sideboard. “That’s what troubles me. By all logic, it seems impossible.”
“Well, someone got to him,” Cathrynne said. “I know they did!”
Gavriel stirred beneath the blankets. “I can hear you,” he muttered, “talking about me as if I’m already gone.”
She crossed to his bedside. “You’re not going to die,” she said firmly. “But you can turn that clever brain of yours to some use. Any ideas?”
Before he could reply, they heard voices outside. Yarl drew the curtain aside and peered out the window to the courtyard below. “It’s the Morag,” he announced. “With a delegation of witches.”
Gavriel struggled to sit up, mouth setting in a stubborn line. “Tell them to go away,” he growled. His gaze was pleading. “Please, Cathrynne. I don’t trust them.”
She didn’t trust them, either. Any one of them might be the poisoner. But she was only a cypher, as low in the witch hierarchy as you could get, and she wasn’t sure Isbail Rosach would listen.
Plus, she had ignored a series of red-eyed crows that came and pecked at the windows of the manor house. Isbail Rosach was probably quite annoyed with her.
