The scuff of foot against floor startles me awake, my heart racing.
Onlé, not Darnell, is crouched over me, her loose-limbed readiness to act such a mirror of the mother she's never known. "She's bleeding."
I pull Evonalé away from her, closer to me. "Darnell would know if you healed her."
My cousin's daughter nods and holds up a strip of clean cloth. "May I have the old bandage?"
I gently unwrap and rebandage the cut, myself—Onlé seems to be turning out human in her ability to control her magic, but I'm leery of trusting it yet—and I thank the Creator that at least my daughter's arm isn't infected. She's young enough that could so easily kill her—and small enough that she could've easily lost her arm altogether.
If not for the prophecy, I'd likely consider her death a good thing, to spare her what her father plans for when she's older.
Onlé doesn't tell me why she wants the old, bloodied bandage, and I don't ask. I can't let slip to Darnell what I don't know.
And if she is actually working to weaken the blood-based wards trapping us or the magic binding us, I don't want to know. Such magic is dangerous, and I have enough worries nibbling at my mind.
One of them is Onlé, herself, whose human blood is starting to show. No pureblood elf girl would be blossoming out of childhood, yet. At least Darnell doesn't know her well enough to be certain of her age, but I would hate to have to lie and call her sixteen. Especially with what Darnell would do or have done to her.
"She's getting big," Onlé says, of my daughter. "I guess that's the human in her."
It is, but Evonalé's not as human as I expected her to be—but then I appear less human than Tully, and we each had one human parent and one elfin.
My cousin's daughter edges back a bit, to be doubly certain that her magic can't fix the baby's arm when she isn't paying attention. "Liathen's well—or as well as he can be, all things considered."
Breath catches in my throat, and Evonalé shivers in my arms from the chill that enters my skin.
"He doesn't speak much, and I don't dare show him his letters until he's older."
Until he's old enough to hide it. Old enough to understand why the knowledge must be hidden. "I understand."
Her previous escape was blamed on me, and Darnell assumed she made it through the blood boundary with me rather than breaching it, herself.
He never would have left her loose if he'd realized she'd broken through, herself.
Onlé glances back behind her, glances towards the sniffling of some other poor woman unfortunate enough to be property in this realm, and the determination on her face is so-obvious reminder that she can't help.
She has responsibilities of her own—to protect herself, to make sure Darnell doesn't realize what he has in her—and even her watch over Liathen is both a risk and a boon. She isn't useful enough for Darnell to refuse to let her do it—but caring for the boy gives her much opportunity to betray what she is.
Marsdenfel is empty and barren, now. Liathen is trapped there by magic, and alone far too often for the safety of a child his age. I suspect Onlé's been more involved in his survival than she'll admit.
But I will not ask.
"You should go," I say instead. A reminder that she needs to avoid Darnell's men and monsters as much as Darnell, himself.
She looks at me with regret, gives Evonalé a little smile, and slips out into the night.
And the sight makes me wonder again if she'll survive all this—and if she does, I wonder if Tully will ever forgive me for driving Onlé to take so much after her mother.