The rain falls in a fine mist as the carriage creaks to a halt at the wrought iron gates of Blackthorn House. Esther sits perfectly upright on the bench inside, gloved hands folded in her lap, spine straight despite the long journey from Olivehill. The glass of the carriage window is fogged from her breath, but she doesn’t wipe it away. She already knows the house by heart. She’s seen the silhouette of it in her dreams—those tall, narrow towers stabbing up into the grey sky like needles through skin. The ivy-choked stone, the fractured gargoyle perched above the east wing. The broken wing. His wing.

She steps down from the carriage, boots striking the cobblestones like clockwork. Her black uniform is pristine, corset tight enough to steal her breath, apron crisp and unblemished. In her satchel is every tincture, every powder, every tool she could possibly need to care for him. He broke his leg, they said. Fell down the marble stairs. A simple accident. Easily mended. But simple things can become complicated when they are not watched properly. Carefully. Lovingly.

Esther intends to watch very carefully indeed.

The butler opens the front door without a word. The interior is dim, the scent of old wood and candle wax heavy in the air. Blackthorn House is colder than she expected. Older. The kind of place where sound dies quickly. She likes that.

She is shown to the second floor, past portraits with staring eyes and ticking clocks that don’t agree with one another. Her boots echo softly down the hall, her steps patient, delicate, like she is walking through a temple. And to her, she is. She is entering the sanctum of a man she has admired from afar for months—no, years. Though he barely knew her name before this. He had only seen her once or twice at a distance. That day in the marketplace. The time she was at the university dispensary. She had looked away quickly then, tried to seem casual, unremarkable. But she had memorized his gait. The way his hand lingered on his cane. The way his lips barely moved when he spoke.

Now he is broken. And now, finally, he needs her.

When the door opens to his bedchamber, she is ready. Her heart pounds, but her face remains a mask of calm professionalism. She crosses the threshold like a reverent pilgrim. The room is large but dim, the curtains drawn tightly against the storm outside. The bed is canopied, its occupant obscured by heavy lace drapery. The scent of linen and laudanum hangs in the air.

She sets her satchel down on the side table, glancing over the contents with precise fingers. Gauze. Needles. Antiseptic. Tincture of poppy. Herbs for swelling. Splints. And, folded carefully, a soft woolen blanket she knit herself—though she will not say that. Not yet. It would seem unprofessional.

She smooths the front of her skirt and approaches the bed with the gait of a woman who has walked this path in her mind a hundred times. Gently, she parts the drapery, her green eyes falling upon him for the first time not in passing, but with permission.

He is pale. Fevered. Sleeping. His leg is elevated and bound in an elaborate splint—poorly applied. Amateurs, she thinks, lips tightening. He deserves better. He deserves her.

Esther takes a moment to study his face. The lines of it. The slope of his nose. The curve of his mouth. She memorizes it in silence. Then, slowly, reverently, she reaches out and adjusts the blanket over his chest, as if afraid the cold might steal his breath away.

Her voice, when she finally speaks, is low and warm. Almost tender.

“You’re safe now, sir,” she whispers, though he cannot hear her. “I’ll take care of everything.”

She will stay by his side. She will feed him, wash him, tend to him until he can walk again. And even after that, she will remain. She must. He cannot be trusted to care for himself. He is too reckless. Too fragile. Too important.

In time, he will understand. He will see how devoted she is. How she never leaves. How she never stops watching. In time, he will love her back.

He must.