Paper Confines

xxxiii. Whose Gentle Heart Thou Martyrest

PAPER CONFINES.
33. / Whose Gentle Heart Thou Martyrest

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Tom was asleep in a conjured chair when she came to, an old text bookmarked midway on his lap for refusal to dog-ear even the most ruined pages. Amoret blinked at the dull teal light, and wound her face into one of involuntary discomfort.

There was a blanket tangled at her feet, no doubt kicked away in her sleep as her temperature rose, and she assumed Tom had conjured that too. It was strange—strange to look at him and find him suddenly boyish, features absent of the underlying enmity that always seemed to weave them. A soft, bruised-looking thing he was when he slept. It heightened the contrast of his scar. Amoret still couldn't summon guilt for it; the discomfort was in wondering why he'd stayed.

"Tom," she whispered, her mind steadier now that the draught was wearing off, but fuzzy with sickness.

She hungered for Bibi's urojo and Colette's best tea, but made do with strumming her fingers along the tassels of Nadya's pillow and watching Tom's eyes flutter open.

"Amoret," he answered languidly, pushing back a few fallen strands of hair.

Her tone went stiff. "Good morning."

It reminded her, inexplicably, that she was dying. She was dying and her lungs were sore from sobbing and she was wishing Tom Riddle a good morning, stuck on the drowsy inflection of his voice. Everything made progressively less sense.

Perhaps Tom was equally put-off, but hid it better. He stretched forward in his seat, fixing posture that hadn't been slack in the first place. "Good morning. Have you thought about what I said?"

"I've just woken up, so no, ritualistic murder hasn't yet crossed my mind."

"All in due time."

She really was going to set a rule about that word. "How long did I sleep?"

He checked his watch, which was a useless contraption in a place like this, and then up the window to where the water was negligibly lighter. That meant it was daytime, at least, which was enough for Amoret.

She shot upright and groaned at a pulsing headache. "You shouldn't have let me sleep so long. I need to check on Myrtle."

"Of course," Tom remarked glibly, "How unfortunate it would be if the girl whose life is draining yours were to die."

His pleasantness was greatly reliant on his staying unconscious.

Amoret didn't afford him a response, shoving her blankets aside and ignoring all her body's resistance as she stood. She'd push through this like she had all else—Besting death twice didn't seem a cheap accomplishment to cite in a future where she escaped. If she could look at it that way, maybe it wouldn't eat her whole before the magic did.

"Here," he said behind her, "if you insist on foolish acts of heroism."

He had another draught in hand, held out from the other side of the bed. She took it apprehensively, eyeing the pearly blue liquid as it swirled in the phial, then back to his face.

"Did you conjure this?"

"No. I knew you'd be difficult if I did."

"...The colour is from silver?"

"Yes."

She couldn't deny the ingenuity if she wanted to, which she did. Silver for external wounds was obvious, but now that she had a better understanding of what exactly was happening to her body—wrought by dark magic and being pulled in a thousand directions—a sealant made sense. It could keep her from irreversible cellular deterioration.