Thomas Wakley would be here this evening for her lesson. Shoving the bedcovers aside, she sat up and looked at the mantel clock, its face dim in the light of the fireplace’s dying embers. It was a quarter after four. The sun would set sometime after five. Her gaze strayed to Rafael. He was still asleep on his meager pallet on the floor. His dark brows creased in discomfort. Her heart gave a sympathetic twinge. With his damaged arm, sleeping on such a hard surface was surely painful. Could Wakley help her find the key to healing him? Or did the answer lie within the vampire’s unique biology? Lighting the oil lamp on the bedside table, she removed her journal and quill from the drawer. For the next hour, she scribbled notes on everything she knew about musculature and burn injuries, along with what she’d learned about vampires and their physiology, searching for something that would cross-reference. Unbidden, she glanced at Rafael again, entranced by the sharp angles and curves of his lips.
