“You want to clean up first?” I wouldn’t want to wake with dried blood on my face, arms, and clothes.
“No, I—well, yes… First One, I’m tired.”
I spotted a chair in his dressing room and lowered him into it. “I’ll get a cloth.”
I found a second candle and hurried to the kitchen, where I started a fire and heated a small amount of water. I hated to ruin his dishcloths, but they were all I could find. I brought a handful and a basin of water back to the dressing room.
He slept in the chair, his head lolled to the side. He’d wake with a wicked headache if I left him there. I gently shook him semi-awake and wiped what grime I could off his face and arms. The worst bits wouldn’t come off until I moistened them first.
Should he change his clothes? I didn’t think he could on his own, but everything he wore was disgusting and ruined. I can remove his shirt, but his pants… Friendship had limits. I searched through his drawer of neatly folded shirts and picked one that was worn and soft.
“Shamino?” He’d fallen asleep again. “Shamino, I have a shirt.”
He stared at me, stared at the shirt. Looked at himself. Grimaced. “Yeah.”
My face hotter than dragon flame, I lifted the crusty, stiff cloth that had once been a shirt. As it peeled away, I may have stopped breathing. His chest matched his arms, muscular and perfect—almost. Some of the blood had soaked through the shirt, and I really should have wet the cloth and run it along—
I grabbed the clean shirt and held it in front of me so it blocked the sight of his chest. When he took it, I turned my head.
Hopefully he didn’t notice that. My breathing had returned—too fast. I heard him fumbling with the cloth, but I didn’t hear the rustle of fabric against skin. I checked; his naked chest still shone at me. I snatched the shirt from his hands and shoved it on him as if trying to put out flame.
“There. Good. Right.” I held out my hand. “Bed.”
“I’ll sleep here.”
“Will you just accept my help and climb into bed? I promise I’ll leave the moment you hit the pillow.”
The stubborn spark entered his eyes. Then he put his hand in mine.
My nerves jumbled in my stomach as I opened the door. I’d never seen a man’s bedroom. But it was merely a room, clean and simple—It smells like him. First One above, I never realized he had a smell. Dragon and soap and… man.
I was a fluffhead all over again.
I wrestled him onto the bed. The mattress sank in such a comfy-looking way, the dark cover hinting that it’d be soft against my skin. The bed looked so comfortable, I really wanted to sleep except there he was, stretching out—
Thank the First One, there’s something to look at. A portrait hung on the wall, and I studied it instead of him. Then I found myself entranced. The most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, even lovelier than Tressa, smiled at the room. She had deep auburn hair, green eyes that sparkled. It wasn’t her features that made her lovely, however, but her life. It seemed as if at any moment she’d twirl the boy at her side through the air. And the boy…
Chubby cheeks, carrot-colored hair, maybe five or six years of age. His eyes were the same as they were now, and I had seen variations of that adoring smile. My Shamino.
“Your mother,” I said.
“Yes.” Shamino sounded… afraid?
“She’s amazing,” I said, trying to reassure him yet also meaning it. “You can tell she loved you. And you adored her, didn’t you?”
“You don’t know who she is.”
It wasn’t a question. And by the way he said it, I should have known.
My face prickled. “I don’t.”
“I’m glad.” His tension seeped away. I barely heard him whisper, “She was amazing. Like you.”
“Excuse me?” I said softly, certain I’d heard wrong. But he was asleep.
I watched him by candlelight. In sleep, Shamino looked a bit like that carefree boy. Maybe he was relieved I didn’t know who his mother had been, but it was more proof. I’d never be a noble. I’d never belong.
Chapter Eighteen
Two more dragons died the next day: the one with the spear to the fire chamber, and another who’d lost a mage mere minutes after Shamino had healed her. The remaining dragons still required constant care, but as Shamino’s Gift replenished and depleted in turn, things began to improve. Then, four days after that horrible night, one of the barely injured dragons lost her mage. Shamino managed to order me to clean the Infirmary before he locked himself in his study.
Without frantic humans and moaning dragons to fill it, the Infirmary stretched on forever. Someone had set up a few Lights for me, but shadows mottled the cavern and consumed the ceiling. The rock beds had been carried away for a dragon to sear off the gore, but enough blood remained in the cavern.
I left my mop and scrub-brush by the door and went to a rusted patch of floor. The cavern reeked of sulfuric death. Bile rose up in my throat, but I forced it down as I knelt.
“Please, First One,” I whispered. The cavern swallowed my words with emptiness. “My Gift needs to work. I can clean this faster…” I choked off. Such a pitiful request. ‘Let me clean.’
I could clean. I could stay. I could bandage.
“I could fight Thorkel,” I whispered.
I pictured the crimson dragon—no. I shoved that memory away, for it made my knees weak and my head spin. Instead I recalled a different vision, the one where I battled the black mage. Confident Adara. Capable Adara. I pictured her instead, her hands glowing with blue flame, Incinerating objects the black threw at her. She was who I needed to be.
Mentally, I followed the visualization
