Chapter Eight
Cold.
Cornelia reached for the blanket. She wasn’t under one.
Still cold.
She was lying down in her coat, on her bed. The pillow smelled of…
Damien! Where was—
She opened her eyes to the room, and had to squint. The heavy overcast still let too much light in the two tall windows that faced the park across the street. Once she grew accustomed to the brightness, she spotted him. He too still wore his coat, slouched in the chair by her dresser. Through the uncurtained windows, the day looked icy cold against the dark gray sky—sleeting rain slapped against the glass in hard gusts.
Damien slept as if he’d been cut down in place. His arms hanging off either side of the chair, his head tipped sideways as if some headsman had done only a mediocre job of chopping him off at the
