Ignatius Leclair was silent for a long time, then wordlessly picked her up.
The man's arms, like walls of steel, confined her slender and frail figure, making her struggles futile.
Ignatius carried her to the bed, tucked her in, and when he saw her trying to rise, his long fingertips pressed against her collarbone. His phoenix-shaped eyes were as deep as the cold stars in the night sky, and he said in a low voice, "Sleep."
Delphine's head touched the pillow. She turned her face away, avoiding his gaze, and at some unknown moment, she drifted off into a hazy sleep.
Ignatius waited until she was deeply asleep, then reached out to touch the dampness at the corner of her eye, tasted it lightly—it was slightly bitter.
