They looked at him. Two faces — one angular, one soft, both flushed, both terrified, both drawn by a gravity they could not name.
"I know this is a difficult night," he said, and his voice was low, warm, intimate. "I know you are grieving. I know you are frightened. And I know this is — I know how this looks. A lord in your bathtub, asking you to wash him, in the middle of the night, after — after everything."
He paused. Let the silence carry the weight of what he was not saying.
"But I want you to know something." His amber eyes found Sera's. Held them. Then moved to Lira's. Held them. "I want to give you a warm night. A safe night. Something to hold onto that is not grief and fear and the memory of monsters."
'He is — what is he saying? Is he — is he suggesting—'
'I do not care what he is suggesting. I do not care. Look at his face. Look at his eyes. He is looking at me. At me. Not at Sera. At me. He said my name. He said—'
