my fingers rub it. He holds out a hand towards me and I go to him, still unafraid. He takes my face in his hands, tucking my hair behind my ears.
“You’re here,” he says, and his voice is like sunshine, like honey, it’s warm and rich and moreish. “I’m so very glad.”
Where Silas’s voice is spikes and edges, every word a warning, this man’s voice is smooth, velvety and beckoning. He has golden eyes, like Silas, and the same white-blonde hair, though his is long, and shining. He has the same high cheekbones, the same unnatural pallor. He even has the same playful lilt to his lips.
“I thought you were Silas,” I say. “All this time, I thought you were him.”
“Who’s Silas?”
“My friend. He’s… He saved me.”
“Did he? How?”
“Your monsters broke my back.”
“Ah, that was you. I had no idea. How terrible of them. I’ll punish them for it.”
“He made the Elixir. It mended my spine.”
“How interesting,” the Sleeping Prince says. “So the philtresmith is male? How very interesting. Tell me, sweetling. Are you still in Tremayne? You and your friend.”
“We’re hiding. From you.”
“You can’t hide from me, my love.”
He lowers his lips to my brow, kissing my forehead, I can feel them curving against my skin as he smiles and it sends a jolt of warmth through my body.
He leans back, looking at me with hungry eyes, and mine begin to close in anticipation of his kiss.
Instead he thrusts his hand into my chest, tearing the dress, shattering my ribcage until my heart is in his fist, still beating. I begin to lose consciousness as he brings it to his smiling mouth, licking it experimentally.
“Needs more salt.” He smiles.
I scream as I wake, hands rising to my chest, clawing at it, convinced it’s gaping and open.
Then I roll over and heave, my stomach cramping as I retch, though nothing comes up. I lean back against the pillow when it’s passed, enjoying the stiff, scratchy feeling of cool fabric on my too-warm skin, waiting for my heart to slow.
A soft, gloved hand rests on my forehead and I open my eyes to see Silas standing over me.
“Salt,” I say in a strained voice. Already the dream is fading, though it leaves a nasty flavour behind. And as it does I remember the golem; the crack of my spine. The alchemy.
I sit up.
I can sit up.
Elation floods me and I glance briefly at him before I test my feet, wriggling my toes. I laugh without meaning to as I move my knees, tilt my hips, wave my hands. The bandage has been removed from my right hand and the skin on my knuckles is as good as new. It worked. I’m as I was.
“I’m healed. You did it. You healed me.”
He looks at me, his face empty of any expression. “I did.”
Then the rest of the night comes back to me and in my mind’s eye I see again the blackness spreading across his hand, the skin consumed by it, and I shudder.
Immediately he draws away. “I’ll leave you to rest.”
“No, please. I’m sorry,” I say.
He cuts across me, his eyes flashing, his lip curling. “I don’t want to upset you.” His expression is withering, his voice like a knife.
“You’re not. I just…” I try to push the image away, softening my tone. “Silas—”
“Don’t. I don’t want your pity either.”
“No. No, of course not.” I swallow, composing myself. “At least tell me if it hurts?”
He exhales slowly, taking two steps back across the room to slump into a wooden chair. “It doesn’t hurt,” he says eventually; the words full of broken glass scratching inside my chest.
His head is bowed, and I watch him as he picks at the tattered gloves, catching occasional glimpses of the darkened skin beneath. “What is it?”
He doesn’t speak for a long time, staring down at his hands, and I wait, wiggling my toes subtly, feeling both elated and guilty by turn. “It’s not contagious, if that’s your worry.”
“It isn’t,” I say, my voice rising, and I take a breath before I speak again, carefully. “Silas, please. I’m an apothecary. I’ve seen … illness before.”
“It’s not an illness.”
“Then what—”
“It’s a curse,” he snaps, looking at me. “It’s the curse of the philtresmith. All alchemists have a curse. That’s mine. The name for it is Nigredo.”
“Is it… Will it go away? Will it heal?” I try to keep my voice even, shoving down the feeling that someone is walking over my grave.