Chapter 113. What Morning Tries to Take

The infirmary had the patient temper of rooms that outlived all the speeches made inside them. Boiled linen steamed in a copper pan; a long shelf of tinctures watched the bed with the abstract compassion of books; a snow-dumb branch tapped the window without urgency, as if reminding the night that morning would arrive no matter how late law stayed up arguing. The bench we had taught to sit carried the vessel as if wood had been given ethics and discovered it liked the weight. The null held its low humming just at the floorboards, a cool mouth keeping the room from performing grief too soon.

Aria’s hands worked without theater. She teased a thread through skin that did not deserve to be asked for more discipline; she braided pressure with clean cloth; she measured breath against bone and did not let her mouth claim victories the wound had not granted. Jules stood at her shoulder with ledger-quiet, palm steady where steady paid better than eloquence.

Cassandra cut what ne