Ward Against Death by Melanie Card

he asked, would she admit she had medical supplies? Probably not. He’d have to make do. He grabbed the edge of his shirt and tried to rip off a piece for a new bandage. The fabric didn’t budge.
    “What are you doing?”
    He glanced up. She stared at him, her pale gaze making him colder.
    “I need a clean bandage so this doesn’t get infected.” He held up his wrist.
    Her brow furrowed as if he’d spoken a foreign language. Maybe he should try that next; he was fluent in five others. But showing her would probably be faster. He worked the knot free and revealed the gash in his wrist. A trickle of blood crept down his forearm, and he clamped his other hand against the wound.
    “Oh.” She continued to stare.
    “Do you have bandages?”
    “Yes. Of course.” She rummaged through her rucksack, pulled out a bundle of clean linen strips, and motioned on nd motiWard to her side. He tiptoed through the mess of papers and placed his wrist on the arm of the chair.
    He couldn’t begin to imagine what she was thinking. Did she realize he’d slit his wrist to bring her back from across the veil? Did that change her opinion of him? He doubted it. He was still awkward Ward, the bookworm.
    She bound his wrist and leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. Their interaction was over. He bit his lip, fighting his frustration. He wanted to demand answers, find out what they were going to do next, but he wouldn’t get a straight answer. She’d say something flip or not say anything at all. She probably just needed time to think. Figure her emotions out. He certainly would if he’d woken up dead, thinking someone had murdered him—if that was, in fact, her situation.
    He sighed. He should find a room and try to sleep, so he could think of his own plan.
    “We should visit Solartti.”
    He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He couldn’t decide if he should agree to go now, or ask if he could get some sleep first. “What or who is Solartti?”
    “He’s a friend.” She shifted her position, pulling one leg up under the other. “He’ll know what’s going on.”
    Good. Someone who knew what was going on. “And can we trust him?”
    “Oh, absolutely.” She laughed and picked up a parchment. “We can trust him as much as we can trust anyone.”
    Ward wasn’t certain what that meant, but it left a bad taste in his mouth.

    SEVEN

    From her makeshift common spaoroom, Celia grabbed a rucksack that held a few small loaves of flatbread. She added some apples and a generous handful of dried meat, and slung it over her shoulder. Running a hand through her hair, she freed her dark locks from the braid she usually kept it in and let it fall loose down her back. She snagged one of her three jugs of ale and headed to Ward’s room. His seduction was about to begin.
    After a restless sleep, she’d left the cavern late that afternoon. Without thought, she’d wandered back to the Bay of Veknormai and watched the waves wash over the black sand until the setting sun painted everything red. Her mind flitted from problem to problem, never settling on one thing long enough for it to register. What she did decide was something needed to be done about Ward.
    She took the stairs to the third level and headed down the hall toward her study, peeking in each sleeping room and looking for Ward. She found him a few doorways down. He sat in the center of the floor in the dark, his legs crossed, back straight, shirt off, eyes closed. She’d heard that necromancers meditated a lot. Guess it was true. With the soft light from the hall, she could see the hint of wiry muscle along his arms and chest. Given time to grow into his body, she could imagine him as a striking, noble figure. He’d never be as broad as Bakmeire, but Ward could match him in height. Now all he needed were lessons in grace and—
    What was she thinking? He was a mark, not a suitor.
    “Rise and shine,” she said before she had any more ridiculous thoughts.
    His