third time. “You had no choice. I know you never wanted to hurt anyone. The servants say they think he’ll live.”
Marian’s heart thundered with relief and terror combined, so profound that she moaned the words that came next: “No—Elena, he saw me.”
Her maid stopped, lifting her head. “You weren’t dressed as Robin?”
Marian’s head shifted to the side, and she found she could not hold it upright, and let it fall back against the wall behind her. “He saw me.”
Elena watched her from the corner of the room, on her knees, scrubbing rags and water pitcher beside her. Marian sat opposite on the floor, a blanket wound around her shoulders, hair half escaped from the tie that had held it back. Her maid had found her there, shaking and white as snow, and had taken over without missing a step. She’d stripped both cloaks from her and stowed them and the bow and quiver God knew where—Marian could not remember what she’d done with them, or what had happened between that moment and this one.
Elena went back to work without a word, mopping up the last of the water and stuffing the rags into the sack with the others. Then she rose, her face grave, expression trying to hide the fear Marian could read in her eyes.
“Maybe he won’t survive.” She sank slowly to the floor at Marian’s side.
“I pray to God he lives.” Marian closed her eyes and felt the hot sting of tears on raw cheeks. She must have been crying already, because her skin burned where the salt touched.
Elena slipped an arm around Marian and pulled her in close. A few weeks ago Marian would’ve stiffened at her touch, but now she turned and buried her face in Elena’s thin shoulder, curling up as the agony of guilt ripped at her body.
Robin, she called out desperately in her thoughts. I need you—where are you?
But his voice in her mind was silent.
How long Marian wept she did not know—but she and Elena were still there on the floor when the door burst open.
Marian lifted her head, but Elena was already on her feet, moving far more quickly. “Sir!” she exclaimed, indignant as she moved to stand between Marian and the door. “My Lady is unwell. You cannot—”
“Unwell?” Gisborne’s voice was hoarse. “Is she—is she hurt?” He started toward her.
“My Lord!” Elena, in her haste and distress, moved to intercept him—something no servant, and certainly no female servant, had the right to do. “Please, she is merely ill, you must let her rest, she is not decent—”
Marian saw the flash of Gisborne’s eyes over Elena’s shoulder. They swept over her form, blanket and dressing gown and all. Then he turned away abruptly, shoulders tight. “I will send the physician—”
“No,” croaked Marian. “No physician.” She would not shoot a man and then deprive him of care because she could not control her reaction.
Gisborne flinched at the sound of her voice but did not turn. “My Lady,” he said quietly. “You heard?”
“I saw.” The lie—except it was not a lie, was it?—came more easily than ever, more easily than breath just now. “I heard a sound and looked out and saw him lying there, and blood, and—” Her voice gave out, for she had seen what she described, and she saw it even now, transposed over the tableau of Elena and Gisborne at odds in her chamber.
Gisborne exhaled audibly. “You will see to her?” This, Marian assumed, was directed to Elena, who nodded and made a shooing motion.
“She needs rest and prayer and solitude,” Elena said firmly.
I need Robin, Marian thought, and the words burned in her mind.
Gisborne said something Marian could not hear and stalked out. Elena stood for a moment, trembling, and then whirled to return to Marian’s side. She bathed Marian’s face with a cool cloth, combed her hair back from her perspiring face, led her to the hearth. She put a cup of well-watered ale in her hands and told her to drink. Marian, all too eager to let someone else take charge of her, drank. Elena disposed of the soiled rags, built the fire back up, wrapped Marian’s ice-cold feet in woolen stockings. She sat beside her and held her hand, and Marian’s eyes were closed before she realized that water and ale weren’t the only tastes on her tongue—she recognized well the bitter flavor of the draught she’d been given for her terrors all those weeks ago.
She tried to curse Elena, for if the guard survived