She counted seven rolls of thunder before he returned. As the door closed behind him, the tension gripping her eased. Then she noticed he was dripping wet. "Here." She held out the largest of the cloths she'd found and reached for the kettle. She busied herself by the fire, setting the kettle to boil, quite sure she didn't need to watch him drying that remarkable chest The kettle hissed; she reached for the bowl she'd set ready.

He was waiting by the bed; she considered ordering him to dry himself by the fire, then decided to save her breath. His gaze was fixed on the youth's face.

Setting the bowl on the chest by the bed, she squeezed out a cloth, then gently sponged the youth's face, removing the grit and dust of the lane. Cleanliness emphasized his innocence, and highlighted the obscenity of his death. Pressing her lips together, Honoria bent to her task. Until she came to the badly stained shirt.

"Let me."

She shifted back. Two well-judged rips, and the left side of the shirt was free.

"Give me a cloth."

She squeezed one out and handed it over. They worked side by side in the flickering light; she was amazed by how gentle such large hands could be, was moved by how reverently one so powerfully alive dealt with the dying.

Then they were done. Settling another blanket over their silent charge, she gathered the soiled cloths and loaded them into the bowl. He proceeded her to the fire; she set the bowl on the table and straightened her back.

"Devil?"

The call was so faint she only just heard it. Honoria whirled and flew back to the bed. The youth's lids fluttered. "Devil. Need… Devil."

"It's all right," she murmured, laying her hand on his brow. "There's no devil here-we won't let him get you."

The youth frowned; he shook his head against her hand. "No! Need to see…"