he felt brazen, even stupid enough to not care. “I contributed nothing, because I had nothing to contribute.”
Leila cocked her head. “You’re not fond of Cosima?”
“It’s nothing like that. I just haven’t an opinion.”
“None at all?”
He shrugged. “I’ve hardly spoken to Her. Just a few words.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“Yes, She’s beautiful. But lots of women are beautiful.”
“You want more.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“No.” Leila let out a cynical laugh. “For some, beauty is perfectly sufficient.”
“Well, perhaps I’m peculiar. A misfit, dangerous to society.”
Leila rested her chin in her hand, her lips hidden behind her fingers, but the fullness of her cheeks revealed her smile.
“Is that it? Has my interrogation come to an end?”
Leila went quiet, lost in thought yet again. “I have one last question for you.”
“You have my undivided attention.”
Her gaze softened. “Are you all right?”
Tobias laughed. “Well, according to you, I have a hideous bruise on my face. And I did get stabbed in the leg today.”
“No, I mean… Milo died only a few days ago.”
A familiar knot formed in his chest. Milo’s death flashed before his eyes, and his lungs froze, as if he was right there experiencing it once more.
“I wasn’t sure if I should ask,” Leila said. “It didn’t seem particularly appropriate, but…I think about it, sometimes.”
“And what is it that you think about?”
“Your circumstances. They’re utterly fucked. I think about how you can’t just be. How you can’t mourn, like most people would. Because you’re here.”
The knot in his chest pulled tighter. He wasn’t going to say anything—there wasn’t a point, after all—but the words poured from his mouth anyway.
“He dies in my mind every morning, again and again. I watch it happen right in front of me. And when I’m not thinking of him, I’m thinking of how to avoid sharing his fate. And if by some miracle I’m feeling calm, or good, I’m reminded that he’s dead. And I feel guilty for my brief contentment. For allowing myself a moment of peace.”
The stairwell fell silent. Leila’s eyes swirled with thought and emotion, and he hoped to God none of it was critical.
“I sound like a madman, I’m sure,” he muttered. “Like a wreck.”
“You’d sound like a madman if you were anything but a wreck.”
Her words shook him, firm and gentle at the same time. The contrast had become familiar—her solid assurance blended with kindness, a skill unique to her.
She dragged her fingertips across the stone step, creating invisible shapes and patterns. “You’re content sometimes?”
“Sometimes.”
“When you’re with Flynn and the others, I imagine.”
“I’m content right now.”
Leila froze, then continued with her patterns, smiling softly. Tobias watched her until his body defied him, forcing a yawn from his throat.
“Ah, and there it is,” she said. “I suppose you’re ready to turn in now, yes?”
Exhaustion—it hit him suddenly, or perhaps he had been feeling it for some time and hadn’t noticed. He could certainly use the rest, but then he looked at Leila, and the light of the moon reflected off her eyes perfectly, making them appear larger, brighter.
“Would you like me to walk you back to the sanctuary?” she asked.
Another yawn came over him, but he swallowed it down. He leaned against the wall, folded his hands in his lap, and smiled.
“In a little while.”
“Good god, you lazy ass, wake up.”
Hands grabbed at Tobias’s shoulders, shaking him awake. He barely opened his eyes, wrenching himself from Flynn’s grasp. “What’s the hour?”
“Haven’t a clue, but it’s well past morning. You’ve slept the day away.” Flynn crossed his arms. “Are you ill?”
Tobias thought back to the night before—to the hours spent in the stairwell with Leila—and yawned. “Just didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Tobias shoved him away, letting his body go loose as Flynn darted from the tent. It’s the afternoon already? He forced himself upright, waiting for his senses to wake with the rest of his body, and soon enough he felt like himself—better than himself, as the pains from the previous day were a whisper of what they once were. With a grunt, he ambled from the tent.
The sanctuary was bustling, the other men far livelier than him. He hobbled toward Flynn and the others, and their prattle died once they caught sight of him.
“Holy hell,” Raphael said.
“What?”
Zander pointed to his leg. “You’re standing.”
He was standing, was walking, albeit with a limp, his wounded thigh compliant to his will. Tobias patted it down—still tender, but infinitely better than the day before—and smiled. “Leila’s quite skilled.”