With the help of one of the maids, Jess was shown to his bedroom-a cavernous, ornate thing with a bed larger than the cell he and Thomas had shared in Philadelphia. There was a bathroom attached, and Jess made good use of the shower until he was certain he was finally clean of every trace left of his time in Philadelphia. His burns had healed, but the scars still showed, and beneath them, like shadows, he could still see the faint lines of the cuts from the glass he'd gathered up. Good. That was like a badge of honor, those cuts. He wouldn't like to see them disappear, because they reminded him of what was lost.
The closet yielded too many choices, so he grabbed something at random that proved to be plain black trousers and an equally plain shirt in white, with red stripes on the edges of the collar and cuffs. He put it aside and tried the bed, but the softness of it felt wrong to him. He was drowning in it, after all the deprivations. The bare accommodations on the ship had seemed luxurious. This felt overwhelming.
So he dressed, found that his father had provided a new pair of soft leather boots, and went to wander the castle. One thing he'd learned not from his da, but from Wolfe and Santi: landing in a new place represented an entirely new set of challenges, and knowing the terrain might mean the difference between life and death. He'd rather make his map than sleep.
Not that he thought he could sleep, anyway.
His circuit made it through only six rooms on the ground floor, because that was where he opened a set of doors and found a small old library, and Morgan curled in a chair, reading. She didn't hear him come in.
The soft light of late afternoon fell gently over her as she turned pages, and for a moment he just looked at her. He'd seen paintings that weren't as beautiful; the glow of her hair, the curve of her cheek, the drape of the simple dress she wore, all demanded study. The dress was the blue of a perfect sky, and perfectly flattering to her.
"I see you found my father's rarest books," Jess said, and startled her into a flinch, which he regretted. Seeing her peaceful was a gift. She marked her place with a ribbon and closed the volume. "And did you find that bath?"
"I did. Rose soap and all," she said. "And I think you did, too."
She put the book down and came toward him. He ended up with his back to the shelves, and her warm lips on his. The dark floral scent of her rolled over his senses and blotted out everything else but the feel of her skin, the taste of her mouth. It was a long, sweet, burning kiss. They'd been so careful, since Philadelphia; they'd barely touched on the ship. She hadn't trusted herself not to hurt him, and he hadn't trusted himself to push her away, if he had to.
They parted with a shared gasp for air, and he pressed his forehead to hers as she let out a breathless giggle. "Like champagne on an empty stomach," she said. "Ah, I've missed you."
He curled his fingers in with hers and pulled her tight against him, as if they were prepared to dance. "You seem much better."
"I am stronger," she said. "Better is a different subject altogether. Being at sea was . . . good for me. All that energy, all that possibility. But . . ." She took her fingers from his and lifted her hand. A thick glimmer of power formed around it, but it was shot through with dark, shifting stars, like a handful of black glitter. "I'll never be what I was. Dr. Askuwheteau said as much. It's not a matter of strength as much as it is . . . a change of instinct."
It was dangerous, he knew that, but he reached for her hand again. The buzz of power felt like bees against his skin, and when he threaded his fingers through hers and pressed their palms together, he felt the sting. And then it cooled. Vanished.
But he still felt a little wave of weariness ripple through him. Just a little.
Her smile seemed sad. "I can control it. To a point. But what you saw-the black spots-they may lessen over time, but they'll never quite go away. I'm stronger, and I'm more dangerous. But we knew that would happen."
"And it might be needed," Jess said. He hated himself for saying it, but it was true. "You know what we discussed? On the ship?"
She seemed to stop breathing for a moment, and he hated the flutter of panic he saw pass across her face. Then it was gone, and she seemed entirely calm. "We're not safe here."
"I don't know that for certain, but-" It was an instinct he couldn't fully explain, built out of history and hints, memories and feelings. "If we aren't, I need you to be on your guard. Ready for whatever we have to do. All right?"
"Yes." Her fingers curled in the collar of his jacket, and her smile seemed sweet and unreadable. "Not all Brightwells are as honest as you?"