supposed to do? Just tell me!"
"Set me down. The edge."
He knelt and gently laid her at the water's edge. The grey pallor of her face made his heart pound even harder.
She looked up at him, grabbing his shirt. Their gazes locked. "Whatever you do—don't get wet."
He nodded wordlessly.
She rolled off the edge and sank out of sight. No bubbles, no splash. The water swallowed her like it was a pool of molten metal.
Simon screamed at the surface.
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
The surface stilled.
Time passed, but just how much time, he hadn't a clue. There was no sense of movement. His breaths barely stirred the air in front of his face. And, although initially it had taken many long, dragging moments, he eventually had detected a scent in here, subtle yet pervasive.
Was it the water? The steam slicking its way across the mirrored service? Or was it something that burned in the braziers glowing in the corners of the room? The incense was acrid, scraping his sinuses and throat, leaving rawness in its wake.
This was a terrible place to spend any time. Why someone would put a pool in a room that stank like a chemical fire—
Wait a minute, Simon, try using your pea brain a minute. She's not swimming, is she? She's lying on the bottom of a pool that doesn't have actual water in it, bleeding out from a devastating wound. If she's not dead, she soon will be. Should be.
He banged his head against the tiles. And there wasn't a goddamned thing he could do about it. She said don't get wet and the tone of her voice, even in pain, promised him she meant it. He took that part seriously.
He hunched against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. Various charms lay scattered about him, each one considered but discarded. There was no amulet that would be any use to her, not now.
Now, he sat motionless, staring with vacant eyes at the still surface, the steam rising in vague shapes that left him quietly terrified.
A soft sound from the pool roused him. Chiara slowly emerged, rising to the top, floating still and silent, face slack, eyes closed. The milky liquid streamed down her skin in thick rivulets.
Simon crept toward the edge, fear in his eyes.
"Chiara?" he whispered. "Are you—"
Her eyes snapped open and she sucked in a loud lungful of air. Panting, she looked wildly around like she didn't know where she was. But then she saw him. Her gaze locked on his face, she gradually calmed.
He remained perfectly still, unwilling to spook her.
Swallowing hard, she nodded, as if reassuring herself. She waded toward him, her breaths loud against the tiled walls, and draped her arms on the edge.
He drew back from the water that dripped from her skin, forming a small puddle beneath her arms.
She drooped her cheek onto the back of her hand.
"Chiara." His voice was ragged, the screaming and the dry acridity of the room roughening his speech. "What can I do?"
"I could use a shower." She smiled wanly. "Hand me a towel?"
Wrapped in thick towels, Chiara dozed on her crummy couch, her head on Simon's leg. He'd dragged it over to the grand fire place to help keep her warm. He stroked her damp hair, absent-mindedly, having an oddly peaceful moment.
Maybe he needed a bath, too. Her blood had run down his waist, soaking his pants, making him look like he'd been the one who was hurt. His clothes were still marred by dried, dark brown streaks that had stiffened as the blood dried. It made him itchy.
All this reminded him of past experiences. Back then, there'd been no magic pool. Those who had bled didn't survive. He'd been terrified that she wouldn't, either.
Now, she slept, her shoulders rising and falling with each breath. She was alive. And he never had felt more relieved in his entire life.
She stirred, slowly opening her eyes. She pushed herself upright and sat next to him, drawing her bare legs up onto the couch.
"Ah, there she is." Simon reached for a throw pillow and snugged it against her for support. "Feeling better after your
"Set me down. The edge."
He knelt and gently laid her at the water's edge. The grey pallor of her face made his heart pound even harder.
She looked up at him, grabbing his shirt. Their gazes locked. "Whatever you do—don't get wet."
He nodded wordlessly.
She rolled off the edge and sank out of sight. No bubbles, no splash. The water swallowed her like it was a pool of molten metal.
Simon screamed at the surface.
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
The surface stilled.
Time passed, but just how much time, he hadn't a clue. There was no sense of movement. His breaths barely stirred the air in front of his face. And, although initially it had taken many long, dragging moments, he eventually had detected a scent in here, subtle yet pervasive.
Was it the water? The steam slicking its way across the mirrored service? Or was it something that burned in the braziers glowing in the corners of the room? The incense was acrid, scraping his sinuses and throat, leaving rawness in its wake.
This was a terrible place to spend any time. Why someone would put a pool in a room that stank like a chemical fire—
Wait a minute, Simon, try using your pea brain a minute. She's not swimming, is she? She's lying on the bottom of a pool that doesn't have actual water in it, bleeding out from a devastating wound. If she's not dead, she soon will be. Should be.
He banged his head against the tiles. And there wasn't a goddamned thing he could do about it. She said don't get wet and the tone of her voice, even in pain, promised him she meant it. He took that part seriously.
He hunched against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. Various charms lay scattered about him, each one considered but discarded. There was no amulet that would be any use to her, not now.
Now, he sat motionless, staring with vacant eyes at the still surface, the steam rising in vague shapes that left him quietly terrified.
A soft sound from the pool roused him. Chiara slowly emerged, rising to the top, floating still and silent, face slack, eyes closed. The milky liquid streamed down her skin in thick rivulets.
Simon crept toward the edge, fear in his eyes.
"Chiara?" he whispered. "Are you—"
Her eyes snapped open and she sucked in a loud lungful of air. Panting, she looked wildly around like she didn't know where she was. But then she saw him. Her gaze locked on his face, she gradually calmed.
He remained perfectly still, unwilling to spook her.
Swallowing hard, she nodded, as if reassuring herself. She waded toward him, her breaths loud against the tiled walls, and draped her arms on the edge.
He drew back from the water that dripped from her skin, forming a small puddle beneath her arms.
She drooped her cheek onto the back of her hand.
"Chiara." His voice was ragged, the screaming and the dry acridity of the room roughening his speech. "What can I do?"
"I could use a shower." She smiled wanly. "Hand me a towel?"
Wrapped in thick towels, Chiara dozed on her crummy couch, her head on Simon's leg. He'd dragged it over to the grand fire place to help keep her warm. He stroked her damp hair, absent-mindedly, having an oddly peaceful moment.
Maybe he needed a bath, too. Her blood had run down his waist, soaking his pants, making him look like he'd been the one who was hurt. His clothes were still marred by dried, dark brown streaks that had stiffened as the blood dried. It made him itchy.
All this reminded him of past experiences. Back then, there'd been no magic pool. Those who had bled didn't survive. He'd been terrified that she wouldn't, either.
Now, she slept, her shoulders rising and falling with each breath. She was alive. And he never had felt more relieved in his entire life.
She stirred, slowly opening her eyes. She pushed herself upright and sat next to him, drawing her bare legs up onto the couch.
"Ah, there she is." Simon reached for a throw pillow and snugged it against her for support. "Feeling better after your
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