Screams from the courtyard below pounded through my ears, through my head, but I was blind to all but Tobiah’s motionless form. He was so still. So pale. His skin was like paper. The guards cut away his clothes, revealing the black bolt protruding from his gut. Blood splashed like angry ink, pooling around him. “Tobiah.” The whisper splintered from inside me. My hands were on his face. His head rested on my knees. “Trust Wilhelmina,” he’d told his guards. “Protect her.” And then, “I don’t want to fight.” “But that’s all we ever do.” My fingers curled over the contours of his cheek. His skin felt icy, but maybe it was my imagination. Only half aware of the cacophony below, and guards shooting toward the assassin on a nearby rooftop, I bent until my cheek brushed Tobiah’s nose. I held my breath and listened for his. Gasp. Rattle. Sigh. It was weak, and I could almost hear the blood flooding his lungs, in a crimson tide. Flecks of wetness dotted my cheek, but I didn’t move.
