Chapter 4: The Grey Man

The bowls went flying.

I caught the stranger by the front of his coat before his face hit the wood, and he was heavier than he looked.

The guard lunged to help.

"Don't touch him!" he said sharply, and then, to me, "No, wait, don't touch, he's burning."

He was.

Heat rolled off the man's skin.

Under my fingers the veins in his wrist were stained grey, branching up his sleeve.

"Get him down," I said.

We eased him onto Jory's crate.

His head fell back, and I saw his face properly.

He was young, thirty at most, with dark blond hair stuck to his forehead and a jaw that would have been handsome on a man who wasn't dying.

Jory pressed against my hip. "Is he sleeping?"

"Hold the spoon, baby," I said, and he held it.

I filled a bowl from the pot.

The broth was still gold at the edges.

I lifted the man's head in my left hand and tipped the bowl against his lips.

"Drink. Come on, you stubborn thing, drink."

He didn't.

Broth ran down his chin.

I tilted his head back farther, and I laid my free palm flat against his chest, over the plain grey wool, because I did not know what else to do.

His heart was hammering and uneven.

"Please," I said. "Please."

The heat under my hand changed.

I felt it like a tide turning, a pull from my palm into his chest, strong enough that my fingers prickled to the shoulder.

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