“Where are you, woman?” he asked her. “I feel your heart and the seeping of your blood. Sing to me so I can bring you back.”
He moved his hands to her thighs, feeling the shape of her body return, the bones of her legs knitting together and notching into the curve of her hips. When her spine became a long, straight line, he rolled her to her side to run his hands over the back of her skull. It was wet with blood and soft in his hands. He swallowed back bile, surprised at his squeamishness. He had gutted men and beasts and never winced or even hesitated.
“I am a man with little imagination,” he whispered, smoothing her hair. “I cannot pretend to love you. But I can heal you if you help me.”
He strained, still listening for that one note that would save her life. He’d been in this positio
