Chapter 36-3

"She's only just now fallen asleep," Anna said. "I'm sure she'd be sad to know she missed your visit." "I won't wake her. I want her to sleep as much as she can. She needs it." Britta leaned back in her chair, pulling her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. "It's been almost four full days of her refusing to sleep. She can barely keep her eyes open. When she got sick this morning—" "Got sick?" I asked, alarmed. Britta nodded. "Nerves, the healer said. Anxiety and lack of sleep. He's...Cohen might be dying and she's killing herself over it." My throat burned as I whispered, "Dying? But—But he's survived this long. She—Nadia is healing him. She...It's her gift. How can he die if she's here to heal him?" Anna poured a cup of tea for herself and then a second one for me. She added a generous helping of sugar and cream to my cup. "He's—things have been bad." She said, passing the cup to me. "Not as bad today as they have been in the past, but he isn't waking up. The healers don't understand why. Nadia doesn't understand why and blames herself. The poor thing is taking it personally." Britta rubbed at her temples and sighed heavily. "She thinks she's failed him." "But why can't she heal him?" They were both quiet for a long moment. The only sound in the room the soft hum of one of the monitors on Cohen and the click of Anna's spoon against glass. Finally, Britta said, "The healers say his body is weak, but healing. What she's done—the healing she's accomplished over the last few days—it's honestly miraculous. Without her, he'd be dead. I mean it when I say: she is probably the only reason I am not planning a funeral right now." Britta's voice wavered against the words. "But at the end of the day—At the end of the day, Cohen has to fight too. She can hold onto his body and make his heart beat forever, but if he doesn't want to live..." I looked down at my cup of tea. "Can anything be done about it?" Anna glanced to Britta, waiting for the princess—the queen—to speak. When she didn't, she said, "Wait. It's all a waiting game now." "Each day," Britta said, "She has healed more of him. One of the bullet wounds is already nearly gone because of her healing. She's been working steadily at it, trying not to wear herself out. I think by the end of the week, she'll have a good handle on the other two wounds. But the shots did a lot of damage. The bullets didn't all stay in one piece. One of them seems to have exploded upon impact—possibly a second one did too, but it's hard to tell." "Where was he hit?" "His shoulder, left arm, and in his upper left thigh. The one in his shoulder did the most damage." Britta pursed her lips and glanced over at me. "If Cohen doesn't live, it won't be because Nadia hasn't tried. I will—Regardless of what happens, I will owe her a life debt." I looked over at where my friend slept, her face was pressed to Cohen's bare chest, her entire body seeming to cling to him—hold him here—even in sleep. No. If Cohen died, it would not be Nadia's fault. She was trying. She was trying and failing and I knew—I knew that even if we didn't place blame on her, she would blame herself forever if he didn't pull through. Anna sipped her tea, her gaze following mine to where Cohen lay unconscious. "You know," she said softly, just to me, "They look more alike in sleep than they do awake. The nose is similar—the jaw line too." I knew what she meant. And she was right. Cohen and Kai didn't really look like each other normally. But, just now, Cohen did resemble his half-brother. There was something about him, the vulnerability of his expression as he slept, that connected him to Kai. I could see it—see the slight resemblance there. And I could see it with Britta as well. Even though she looked the most like Viera, there was traces of the king in her, traces of Kai. I wondered if she'd like him and consider him a friend if their circumstances were different. Britta looked at Cohen too and I knew she was thinking the same thing. She seemed to consider the comment, her brow furrowing with thought as she scanned Cohen's face. I wanted to tell her about Kai. He is tall, I wished to say. Dark hair. So dark, it's almost black. Golden brown eyes—Uri's eyes. Your father's eyes. Tan skin. Beautiful smile, but it's rare to see all of it. He is reserved. Careful. Hard to get to know. He is afraid of letting anyone too close. He holds everyone at arm's length—but when he lets you in, Britta, when he lets you close to him, he loves you with everything he has. He is an artist. Sometimes, he will look at something for just a beat too long and you'll know, just by the way he is chewing his bottom lip, just by the slight tremble in his fingers, that he has already mapped it out. He has already begun to draw in his head. And you—Britta, you are lucky if he sets those eyes on you. If he sees something in you worth drawing—then you really are goddess-blessed, mark or no. I wanted to say all of that. But I didn't. I held back. Waited. It was strange to see Britta and Anna sitting together like this. They knew who each other was. Britta had to know that this woman, the person sitting next to her, had raised her sibling. Had she asked about him at all? Did she want to know who Kai was? Or was she, like Darragh and everyone else, hell-bent on killing him? Would she even give him a chance to be anything but her enemy?