Chapter 12: The Burn

I held still.

His fingers moved along the scar, slow and careful, from the bottom of my ribs to the curve under my arm.

"It's a silver burn," he said.

"I know what it is."

"It curves like that because the blade was bent."

He said it half to himself.

"Silver dagger, hooked at the tip. The rogues carried them at Ashfall."

"Anders, it's late."

"Does it hurt?"

"Only in the cold."

He said nothing more.

He lay behind me with his arm across my waist and his hand spread over the burn.

I felt his heartbeat against my back, slow and heavy.

I did not sleep.

At some point the wind dropped, and the shutters stopped rattling, and the sky outside turned the grey of old pewter.

I felt him wake behind me, all at once.

His mouth touched my shoulder.

"Morning," he said, in a voice full of sleep and gravel.

"Storm's gone."

"I noticed."

"Your hair is a disaster," I said.

"So is yours. There's a twig in it."

"There is not."

He pulled a splinter of kindling out of my braid and held it up.

I laughed, and the sound surprised me.

I could not remember the last time I had laughed with him in the room.

His hand slid from my ribs down across my belly.

I rolled over, and he looked at me in the thin light.

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