Chapter 293: Am I In Trouble?

She laughed, softly, and the laugh turned into a wince as her ribs pulled. He was on his feet before she finished, one hand already half extended, and then he stopped. His eyes went over her face, quick and careful, checking.

"Are you hurt?"

"No. Just sore." She lay back against the pillow. "I’m all right. I promise."

"You’re sure."

"I’m sure."

He lowered himself back into the chair, slowly, as though the conversation had cost him something. He did not look away from her. He sat with his elbows on his knees and his fingers loosely laced, and she noticed that his hands were not entirely steady.

She looked at them.

Something warm and aching turned over in her chest.

"Thorne," she said. "Am I in trouble?"

He stared at her.

"I asked you that last night," she said. "In my sleep. I think. I remember you saying no."

"You did."

"I wasn’t sure if I dreamed it."

"You didn’t dream it." His voice cracked on the last word, and then he laughed.

It surprised both of them. It came out in a short rough burst, startled and helpless, and he put the back of his hand against his mouth as though he could stop it. His shoulders shook. His eyes were bright.

"No," he said, when he could. "No, Morgana. You are not in trouble. You have never been in trouble. Not once."

"Then why do you look like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you’ve been awake for a week."

"Because I have been awake," he said, "for a very long night, and I’m not entirely certain I’m not still furious."

"At me?"

"At them."

"Ah."

"I am being very mature about it."

"I can see that."

"I had a speech."

"I heard it. Some of it." She smiled. "You said plate of sweets."

His ears went faintly red.

"You heard that."

"I heard it from inside a very warm dream. It was a good speech."

"It was a terrible speech."

"It was a lovely speech. You were very scary." She reached out from under the coverlet and laid her hand over his, and felt him go still. His skin was cool. "And then you carried me out and I fell asleep on your shoulder like a baby."

"You did."

"You didn’t mind?"

"I did not mind."

"Thank you."

He turned his hand over under hers, slowly, and curled his fingers around her own. He said nothing. He only looked at their joined hands for a long moment, and then he lifted them and pressed his mouth, very lightly, to her knuckles.

The door opened without a knock.

"Majesty," said Silas.

He stopped on the threshold with a tray in his hands. He was a lean man in his thirties with sharp eyes and a soldier’s bearing, and his gaze went from the bed to the chair to the clasped hands, and his face did not change by so much as a flicker.

"Warm water, as you asked. And breakfast." He lowered his eyes. "Lady Morgana. Good morning."

"Good morning, Silas."

"Set it on the table," Thorne said. "And leave us."

"Yes, Majesty."

He did, quietly and exactly, and withdrew. The door clicked shut behind him. Morgana looked at the tray. There was bread and honey and a pot of tea, and a dish of eggs, and a little bowl of sliced apples. A second tray stood beside it, with a steaming ewer and folded towels.

"Everyone keeps feeding me," she said.

"Yes."

"Is that a palace custom?"

"No." Thorne released her hand, unwillingly. "It’s a Thorne custom. I will explain it if you ask. You will not enjoy the explanation."

"Why not?"

"Because it involves my childhood and a very fat cook."

She laughed again, and winced again, and he said, mildly, "Eat."

She nodded and started eating.

The tea was strong and sweet, and the bread was warm, and she was starving. She propped herself against the pillows and devoured half the eggs before she noticed that he had not touched the food.

"You should eat, too."

"I ate."

"You didn’t."

"I intended to."

"Thorne."

He sighed. He took an apple slice from the bowl, with the air of a man performing a duty, and ate it. She nodded in satisfaction.

Over his shoulder, a long black cloak lay folded across the back of a chair, with its edges neatly squared. It was the one he had wrapped her in. She looked at it for a while.

"You folded it," she said.

"Of course I folded it."

"It’s a cloak."

"It is my cloak," said Thorne, with great dignity, "and it has been somewhere interesting."

She laughed so hard that she nearly spilled her tea.

***

He drew the bath himself.

She watched from the bed as he crossed the room, rolled his sleeves to the elbow, and disappeared through a low arched door. Water began to run, a deep steady rushing, and warm steam curled out and spread through the chamber, carrying the smell of cedar and something sharp and herbal. Silas’s water, she realized, had gone into it.

"I can walk," she said, when he came back.

"I know you can."

"I’m not an invalid."

"You are the most extraordinary woman in the kingdom," Thorne said, "and I would like to carry you anyway."

She opened her mouth, and closed it.

"Will you let me?"

"Yes," she said, a little breathless.

He lifted her out of the bed with the coverlet around her. She slid an arm around his neck. He carried her through the arched door, into a room of black stone and dark mirrors, where a great sunken tub steamed gently in the light of a single lamp.

It was not the cold pool.

It was smaller, round and deep and tiled in obsidian, and the water in it was warm, almost hot, scented with herbs and thin steam. He set her on the edge. He knelt, and slipped off her slippers, and she remembered with a rush of heat that she wore nothing under his shirt.

"Raise your arms."