Hours passed. The sun crossed the courtyard in a slow gold arc that no one on the ground could appreciate, and the household arrived in stages.
Emily led the maids out with basins and linens, and eight women spread among the suffering with the quiet efficiency of people who could not fix the problem yet refused to watch it idle.
Clarisse knelt beside Vex and pressed a damp cloth to the Hexwitch's forehead. Naomi sank beside Aurora with both hands around her daughter's, steady and present, and Natalie did the same for Blossom, one hand between the blonde ears that lay flat and trembling against the girl's skull, murmuring things too soft for anyone else to catch.
Emily crossed toward Quinlan last, her steps slowing as she neared him.
He was floating with the crimson script alive at his throat and his face a mess of dried blood from the duel, and the power rolling off him was thick enough to taste.
