“What happened?” she whispered when he pulled her aside.
“He got into some trouble in the Heart,” said Fyfe. “Some Sorcerers turned against him. Aelius thought they were loyalists, but they had connections to the rebels. He was double-crossed.”
Ilsa paled, and braced herself against the wall. It was as she had feared. Aelius had told her it was dangerous, and still she had pushed. Still she had threatened to smear his past mistakes across the Zoo if he didn’t do as she asked.
It’s my fault.
Her hands curled into fists as she imagined them closing around Jorn’s throat. So this is what he had Seen when he looked ahead to her next mistake. He had known, had Seen her send Aelius to his near-death, and he had not warned her.
“Is he…” she began weakly, but she was afraid to say the words.
Fyfe swallowed. “He took half a dozen cutting curses,” he said. “Fliss and Cassia are working on him. We sent for more healers and they went in there an hour ago, but… there was blood everywhere, Ilsa.”
There still was. A crimson footprint had smeared across the floor. A bloodied rag lay crumpled next to Ferrien where he was slumped against the wall. Aside from Fyfe, three or four others had traces of blood on their clothes, presumably from hauling a man near death to his bed.
“How’d he get back here?” Ilsa asked. Her voice was hoarse. My fault my fault my fault.
“The Wraith,” said Fyfe. “He showed up at the door with Aelius over his shoulder. He’s been quiet but I think… I think he intervened. When Eliot tried to dismiss him, he said that he’d slaughtered three Sorcerers tonight and could he clean up first.”
Fowler. Fowler had undone Ilsa’s mistake – or tried to. Gratitude doused the toxic, writhing guilt inside her like cool water.
She thought about seeking him out, but at that moment Aelius’s door opened, and the crowd keeping vigil leapt to attention.
Fliss emerged, darkening bloodstains marring her blouse, followed by the extra healers. One carried a mess of surgical instruments and gauze on a tray; the onlookers leaned away from him and his macabre burden as he passed.
Then Cassia appeared, looking pristine, and closed the door shut behind her with a gentle click. Her eyes turned enquiring when they landed on Ilsa, flicking between her face and her shoulder. Ilsa mouthed that she was okay and pressed forward.
“He’s very weak,” said Cassia, “but if he can find the will, he should live.” A collective exhale deflated the atmosphere. “All of you to bed. You have duties in the morning.”
The wolves dispersed sleepily, still muttering about Aelius’s injuries. When the last of their footsteps had faded through the house, Cassia turned to the four of them who remained: Ilsa, Oren, Fyfe, and Eliot.
“Hester’s in there,” she said. “Neither Fliss nor I could get her to leave. The rest of us should get some rest.”
She made towards the stairs, but Ilsa blocked her path. “I want to see him.”
Cassia shook her head. “In the morning. He needs to heal.”
“No, now. This is my fault, Cassia. He went to see them Sorcerers because I asked him to, even when he warned me.” She could feel the curious glances of Cassia, Oren, and Fyfe; Eliot’s eyes were trained on the floor. “I’ll go mad if I don’t see him myself.”
“If Ilsa’s seeing him, I am too,” said Fyfe, squaring his shoulders.
Cassia scowled. “No, Fyfe, I—”
“I know the spells and potions used to heal. I wanted to help but you told me I would be in the way. You said—”
“I said you could see him as soon as he was stable,” finished Cassia resignedly.
“Well, if Ilsa and Fyfe are going in there,” said Oren, stepping forward.
“And if everyone else is,” added Eliot.
“Heaven and earth,” muttered Cassia, opening the door, and they all poured into the room. “Just for a minute.”
Hester turned stony, tired eyes on them as they entered. There was a sheen of sweat across her brow and she sat angled towards one of the windows that had been thrown open. Her fingers trembled on the arm of her chair, and Ilsa remembered what Eliot had told her: Hester was afraid of blood. She was there throughout, all the same.
“Quite a day,” she said lightly, but the humour didn’t touch her features. She roused herself to roll her chair across the small sitting room. The strength and grace of her thin arms as they turned the wheels was surprising; Ilsa had never seen Hester move for herself, but she made it look easy.
At the door to the bedchamber, she turned to Ilsa. “Prepare yourself, cousin dearest,” she said, before leading the way in.
Ilsa quickly smothered her alarm. She should have been prepared; she’d suspected Aelius wasn’t wearing his true form. This version of him was smaller, less muscled, with bones and tendons carving depressions and ridges along his arms. His narrow shoulders seemed to fold around his chest protectively, and his skin was lighter, greyer, like sun-bleached fabric. Two folds of weakened skin hung heavy under his resting eyes. The glossy black hair and moustache he normally wore were complete works of fiction.
The Aelius Ilsa had come to know appeared to be around thirty. The real man was fifty years his senior.
Unsure of herself, Ilsa glanced around, and found that everyone looked as awkward as she; everyone’s eyes sought somewhere to rest other than on him. He wouldn’t want them to see him like this, and they all knew it.
But when he stirred and murmured, their qualms were forgotten. Oren went to his bedside and gripped his hand.
“Welcome back old, old friend,” he said. Aelius murmured again, and Oren got closer to hear
