Chapter 10: Thorn Seven

The seventh thorn sat in the chest, one finger from the heart.

Wanqing knew it before she touched him.

She laid her palm over the pale skin of his breastbone and felt his pulse stumble against her hand.

"This one's dangerous," she said.

"I thought they all were."

"No. This one is awake. If I pull it wrong, it'll slip into the heart."

Yuhang looked at the ceiling.

"How wrong is wrong?"

"A hair."

"Then pull it right."

He said it lightly, but his hand closed on the sheet.

She set only five needles, because anything more would shake the thorn.

She worked with her palms flat and her breath slow, and her own heart steadied itself against his, beat for beat.

The thorn moved once.

Both of them stopped breathing.

It was cold enough to burn.

It felt like drawing a wire of ice out of a living vein, one slow inch at a time.

She did not use her mouth until the last.

When she bent over him and set her lips over his breastbone, his hand came up and cupped the back of her head.

"Take your time," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

The thorn came free.

It burned her tongue, her throat, her chest, all the way down.

She turned her head, spat into the bowl, and lifted her face to tell him it was done.

The room went white.

The floor tilted, and her knees did not hold, and she heard him say her name from very far away.

When she opened her eyes again, she was lying in the second bed behind the screen.

Her teeth were chattering so hard she bit her tongue.

Her skin was on fire and she was shaking with cold.

She could not tell how long she had lain there.

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