THE NEXT DAY, MAILAH WOKE UP ALONE.
The space beside her held the indentation of someone who had been there long enough to leave an impression, and the blanket on that side carried a warmth that was fading but not yet gone. She pressed her palm against it and lay there for a moment, taking inventory.
Her shoulder still pulled. Her hands, when she flexed them, reported back with a dull resistance that Soren would probably describe in careful, neutral language designed to make her stay in bed. Her head was clear for the first time in what felt like weeks.
She sat up.
The room was tidy. The glass from the floor beside the chair was gone. The lamp had been turned off. On the bedside table, a covered plate sat beside a small cup, and beneath the cup was a folded piece of paper.
She reached for it.
The handwriting was precise. Angular. The handwriting of someone who had learned it in a different century and had never updated the style.
