“Stains from tablecloths,” murmured Charlie, winking at Robin. “Shall we?”
He splayed his hands flat above the ink-copy, then tugged suddenly upwards as though yanking a net of fish clear from water.
Robin heard a scream like metal under strain.
It was him.
It felt as though the symbols were alive, all teeth and heat, burrowing their way through Robin’s flesh. The hand that had been between Robin’s thighs gave a pang, and Robin realised he’d jerked it so hard it had struck the edge of the table.
“Robin,” Edwin was saying.
The pain ran out of fuel in Robin’s forearm and headed north. Robin had the sudden conviction that if it reached his chest, his heart would stop. A wash of fear weakened him entirely. He gave another scream, this one coming out muffled through his teeth, and then the pain took gleeful hold of his muscles and he spasmed all the way out of his chair.
He didn’t remember hitting the floor, but he must have. When he opened his eyes the left side of his head was pounding as someone rolled him onto his back. His left wrist throbbed in tandem with it. His entire right arm felt like water at a low simmer.
“I’m fine,” he said weakly. “I can sit.” The arm behind him was Charlie’s, helping him upright. Edwin, on his knees on the rug, looked a curdled mixture of fear and relief. One of his hands was gripping Robin’s ankle.
“Is it—？” said Robin.
“No,” said Edwin. “I’m sorry.”
Robin made his eyes focus. The runes of the curse had spread, rapid and angry as ants in a poked anthill. They wrapped around both sides of his arm, now, and reached halfway up the span between elbow and armpit. The snake of his fear swelled and writhed.
“Rotten shame,” said Charlie with genuine sympathy. “Chair or feet? Or stay where you are?”
“Chair,” Robin decided, and winced his way into it with Charlie’s help. “Thanks for trying, Charlie. You should probably let the others know I’m still alive and whole; I’m fairly sure I was yelling my head off, there.”
Charlie waved a don’tmention-it kind of hand and left, looking transparently glad for the excuse. Robin exhaled. It felt like the first time he’d remembered to do so since regaining consciousness.
“I made it worse,” said Edwin, flat.
“It was getting worse anyway.”
This did not appear to help matters. Edwin’s pale face was pulled tight with unhappiness. “Perhaps I should take you to the Assembly after all.”
Robin remembered what Edwin had said about the Magical Assembly and the rarity of foresight. “I’d rather you had another go at it,” he admitted. Edwin looked taken aback; Robin shrugged. “Why not?”
“Why not?”
“I’m the one who insisted you try today. And I’m sure you’re on the right path. You’ve been nothing but . . . precise.” That was it, the word that fit Edwin better than controlled. He was thoughtful, and dedicated, and precise, and Robin found it unspeakably comforting. His usual love of spontaneity was taking a serious battering, here and now, when it was his own well-being at stake. He managed a smile. “Who else am I going to entrust my good bowling arm to?”
“You don’t have to be so—” said Edwin, and stopped.
“Stubborn? Lost cause, I’m afraid.”
“That’s. Not what I meant.”
“Oh?”
Muscles worked under the skin of Edwin’s slender neck. “You say you don’t want to be protected. All right. I say you don’t have to be careful of my feelings.”
Robin bit back the words Someone should be, because he could tell they were going to come out the wrong way. “My head’s hurting like the dickens,” he said, standing. “I’m going up to bed. See if a rest does it any good. Tell the others I’m still not feeling quite the thing, will you?”
He tucked himself beneath sheets that smelled of lavender and smoke. Sleep stayed out of reach; Robin managed to dip his aching head beneath the surface of a doze, thoughts unspooling like a dropped roll of thread. Like glowing string.
The pain came again, an hour before the bell rang for dinner. While it lasted, it wiped everything else away.
Edwin’s mother declared herself well enough to join the general dinner table that night. It was a rare enough occurrence that the room felt respectful and festive; even Trudie and Miggsy managed to keep the scrape and hoot of their voices to reasonable levels. Which only went to show that the rest of the time they could have—Edwin considered, chasing peas around his plate with his fork—but were choosing not to out of sheer delight in their own loudness.