She reached for the silverware arranged atop a folded napkin, then hesitated. She had vague memories of being washed and tended to before being lulled to sleep by the soothing motions of a comb gliding through her hair. Blood rushed to her cheeks, but she resolved to thank Silas in spite of her embarrassment. He had been far gentler with her than Hannah, and by now she was certain that when he’d expressed his lack of interest in human bodies, he had been telling her the truth.
As she tore into breakfast, she tried to make sense of her current state. The time of day suggested that she had slept for almost twenty-four hours. Her fever had broken. She was in the lilac room again, like last time. A black silk dressing gown enveloped her, almost exactly the right length for her tall frame, which she suspected meant it belonged to Nathaniel. It smelled of expensive soap and a curious scent she could only identify, rather disconcertedly, as boy—which didn’t seem as though it should be a good smell, but was.
A realization sank in: all of her possessions were gone. She didn’t even have clean clothes. The only item in the room that belonged to her was the letter from Summershall, still folded, resting discreetly on the nightstand. Silas must have retrieved it from her pocket. How was she supposed to fight the Chancellor when he had so much, and she so little?
A knock came on the door. “I’m awake,” Elisabeth said around a mouthful of pastry. She expected Silas, but instead Nathaniel strode in, fully dressed this time, armored in a tempest of emerald silk. Before she could get in another word, he paced to the window and braced his hands on the sill. He didn’t seem to want to look at her. In fact, he seemed to want to say whatever it was he’d come here to say and then vacate the room as quickly as possible.
Elisabeth finished chewing, and swallowed. The pastry lodged dry in her throat.
“I should have known you’d go charging headlong into trouble at the earliest opportunity, you complete terror,” Nathaniel said to the window. His words came out in a rush, as though he’d been rehearsing them in the mirror. “It appears that even the Chancellor wasn’t up to the task of keeping you out of danger. Why aren’t you in Summershall? Never mind. We’ll contact the Collegium, and they’ll arrange a coach for you.” He tensed, angling his face. “What is that?”
Elisabeth had approached him with the letter from Summershall. Reluctantly, he took the paper. Their fingertips brushed, and she noted in surprise that he had calluses on his hand. She retreated, folding her arms tightly across her stomach, suddenly conscious that she was wearing Nathaniel’s clothes with little else on underneath.
His brow furrowed as he read the letter once, twice, his gray eyes eventually lifting to hers, uncomfortably piercing in their intensity. “I don’t understand.”
“The new Director doesn’t want me back. He’s struck me from the records.” She sank down on the end of the bed. “And I have more to tell you.”
“Is it about the threat Silas mentioned?”
“I think so. You might want to sit down.”
Nathaniel raised his eyebrows, but he compromised by leaning against the wall beside the window. Elisabeth opened her mouth, then hesitated and squeezed her eyes shut. The words formed knots inside her chest. It was harder to begin than she’d expected. She had been betrayed too many times, by so many different people. What if she was wrong about Nathaniel, and she couldn’t trust him, either?
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” Her eyes flew open. Nathaniel was contemplating her with an unreadable expression. “It’s all right,” he said. “I know . . .” He considered his next words. “I know what it feels like to have things you can’t say. To anyone.”
A torrent of relief flowed through Elisabeth. He isn’t the Chancellor. He isn’t like the physician, or Warden Finch. Helplessly, hoarsely, she began to laugh. Hysterical sounds wrenched from her body, bordering on sobs, and tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. She tried to stop, but that only made it worse; her laughter turned into panicked gasps.
She expected Nathaniel to stare like everyone else had, as though she’d gone mad, for even she felt that she had gone mad, but instead the way he looked at her was—was—it was like turning a corner and