The weeks that followed were measured in small victories.
The first time Sheila sat up without help, the first time she stood on her own, the first time she walked the length of her room without leaning on the Duke's arm. Each step forward was hard-won, each movement a negotiation.
The doctors came and went, their faces the same, their words the same. Healing takes time. Don't push yourself. You're young.
But the doctors were not Avatars. They had no means to speed the process, no gifts from the Sources to knit flesh and bone. They had only bandages and salves and the slow, patient work of the body mending itself.
Sheila learned to hate the word patience.
---
The burn on her arm was the first to heal.
Not completely—the scar would remain, pink and puckered, a map of the explosion's fury. But the raw flesh closed, the bandages came off, and she could move her fingers without wincing. The doctors said she was lucky. The explosion could have taken the arm entirely.
She looked at the scar in the mirror and thought of Leximus.
He was at the center of the blast, she thought. He must have been hurt worse than me.
Is he healing somewhere? Is anyone helping him?
She did not know. She could not know. The rumors said he had survived, but rumors were smoke.
---
The burns on her back took longer.
She could not see them, but she could feel them—the tightness when she stretched, the pull when she breathed, the ache when she lay on the mattress for too long. The nurses applied salve twice a day, their hands gentle, their voices soft. They told her the scars would fade with time.
She did not believe them.
But she endured.
---
The Duke visited every day.
He sat in the chair by the window, reading newspapers or pretending to read, his eyes often drifting to her face. He did not talk about his investigation unless she asked. He did not mention Leximus unless she brought him up.
But she saw the weight on his shoulders. She saw the lines deepen around his eyes. She saw the way his hands trembled when he thought she was not looking.
He is carrying too much, she thought. He is carrying me, and the household, and the search for Leximus, and the weight of the past.
I need to get well. For him.
---
The physical therapy began in the fourth week.
A woman named Janet came to the hospital who specialized in burn recovery. She was middle-aged, with grey-streaked hair and strong hands and a voice that was firm but kind.
"Scars are tight," she said, examining Sheila's arm. "The skin pulls. The muscles underneath forget how to move. We need to remind them."
She showed Sheila exercises—stretches, rotations, small movements that seemed pointless at first but grew harder the more she did them.
"Every day," Janet said. "Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts."
Sheila did them.
She did them in the morning, before breakfast. She did them in the afternoon, between visits. She did them at night, when the hospital was quiet and the only light came from the gas lamp by her bed.
The pain was sharp at first, then dull, then familiar.
She learned to live with it.
---
The fifth week brought a milestone: she walked the length of the corridor without stopping.
The Duke was with her, his hand hovering near her elbow, ready to catch her if she fell. The nurses watched from their stations, their faces bright with encouragement. A patient in a nearby room applauded.
Sheila wanted to cry. She did not know why.
I am eleven years old, she thought. I should not be proud of walking down a hallway.
But I am.
She looked at the Duke. His eyes were wet.
"I'm all right, Grandfather," she said.
"I know," he said. "I know."
---
The sixth week brought the celebration.
It was not a grand affair—not like the Annunciation, with its carriages and crowds and endless parade of nobles. This was a small gathering, held in a private dining room at the hospital, attended by the Duke, a few trusted servants, and the doctors who had overseen her care.
Sheila wore a new dress—pale blue, with long sleeves to cover the scar on her arm. Her hair was pinned up, her cheeks flushed with color. She looked, the nurses said, almost like herself again.
She did not feel like herself.
But she smiled, and she thanked the doctors, and she let the Duke kiss her forehead.
It was enough.
---
The Prince arrived late.
The Duke had not expected him. The invitation had been sent, as a courtesy, but no response had come. The Palace had been silent for weeks.
But the door opened, and Prince Lumian walked in.
He was dressed in a dark suit, his hair combed back, his posture perfect. He looked older than twelve—sharper, colder, more like his father. His eyes found Sheila immediately, and something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or relief.
"Lady Karmis," he said. "I heard you were recovering."
Sheila curtsied.
"Thank you for coming, Your Highness."
"I told you to drop the formalities."
"Lumian."
He nodded. "Better."
---
The Duke watched from across the room, his face unreadable.
The Prince walked to Sheila's side, his hands clasped behind his back. The other guests had fallen silent, their eyes fixed on the two young figures at the center of the room.
"You look better than the last time I saw you," Lumian said.
"The last time I was when I woke from a coma."
"I remember. You were very pale."
Sheila felt something twist in her chest.
"Yes. I guess I was."
The Prince was silent for a moment.
"Good," he said. "I would have been bored without you."
---
The banquet continued.
The food was simple—roasted meat, fresh bread, vegetables from the hospital's garden. The guests spoke in low voices, their conversations polite, measured. The Duke kept his distance from the Prince, watching, waiting.
Sheila sat beside Lumian at the table.
"The Duke has been looking for answers," the Prince said, his voice low. "About the bombing. About your brother."
"I know."
"He hasn't found much."
"I know that too."
Lumian looked at her. "Does it bother you? Not knowing?"
Sheila was silent for a long moment.
"Yes," she said. "But I've learned to live with it."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
---
The celebration ended at sunset.
The guests departed, one by one, until only the Duke, Sheila, and the Prince remained. The servants cleared the tables, their movements quiet, efficient.
Lumian stood by the window, looking out at the city.
"The capital has changed," he said. "The people are afraid. The guards are everywhere. My father is..." He paused. "My father is not well."
The Duke stepped forward. "What do you mean?"
"The bombing affected him more than he shows. He sees enemies everywhere. He trusts no one." The Prince turned. "He trusts me less than most."
"Why are you telling us this?"
"Because you need to know. Because you're going to be my wife, Lady Karmis. And because I think..." He hesitated. "I think we're going to need each other."
---
The Duke escorted the Prince to the door.
Sheila watched them go, her hand resting on the banister, her scarred arm hidden beneath the sleeve of her dress.
We're going to need each other.
She did not know if she believed him.
But she was willing to find out.