He said, “I think you killed me.”
The words hung there between them like a ghost.
They floated in the space between mouth and ears, pale and shimmering, like a curling wisp of steam or thin little dust motes. I think you killed me, he’d said, and there it was, a truth that Rowan hadn’t realized until he’d spoken it out into the slow-moving air of the room. He looked at them, the soft, disillusioned ghastliness of them, and Asher looked at them—and then he was looking through them, at Rowan, copper through lace, and Rowan was looking back.