Louk returned in the evening to mix him another terrible drink and check on him. Graden had paced around his room all day, irritated, uncomfortable, and unsettled. He hadn’t bothered with a book, couldn’t concentrate enough to read if he tried.
“How are you feeling?” asked Louk, entering with his doctor’s bag and looking tired. He glanced at the food tray. “You haven’t eaten.”
“I nibbled,” said Graden. He sat on the bed and Louk unquestioningly moved toward him. The s**t he’d drank earlier had helped, but not enough in his opinion. He still wanted—no, still craved—magic. It was too difficult on his own, in his own mind, present.
Graden wanted to be elsewhere.
“Feeling touch-averse still?” asked Louk.
“What?” asked Graden, then when he caught Louk’s expression of concern, “Uh, I’ll tel
