Clove's footsteps faded down the hall, and the silence settled around them like the dust motes spinning in the dawn light. Phuwin's fingers laced through Pond's, and he felt the tremble in the Emperor's hand—fine, barely there, the kind that only showed when the weight pressed too long in one place.
"I need to wash," Phuwin said, his voice rough with sleep and the lingering ache of the night. "I feel like I've been dragged through a battlefield."
Pond's eyes snapped to him, sharp and worried. "You can barely stand."
"Then help me."
The words came out before Phuwin thought about them, and he watched the way they landed—the way Pond's throat worked, the way his fingers tightened, the way he looked at Phuwin like he was being offered something he didn't deserve. It was just a bath. But it wasn't, and they both knew it.
Pond opened his mouth, and from the doorway Clove's voice cut through: "Absolutely not."
She stood there with a silk dress draped over one arm and a stack of towels balanced against her hip, her expression the particular kind of dry that only a sister could manage. "You've already nearly killed him once tonight, brother. You are not the one getting him into a bath."
Pond's jaw tightened. "I wasn't—"
"You weren't thinking, as usual." Clove crossed the room, her steps brisk, and set the towels on the chair beside the bed. The silk dress followed, pooling like water, and Phuwin's breath caught at the sight of it—deep blue, almost black in the dim light, with threads of gold running through the fabric like veins of light.
"That's—"
"From the palace," Clove said, not meeting his eyes. "They sent it with the letter. Said you'd want it." Her voice softened, just barely. "You look like you need something beautiful."
Phuwin's chest ached. He reached out, his fingers brushing the silk, and the fabric slid against his skin like a whisper. "It's too much."
"It's a dress," Clove said flatly. "It covers your body. That's its job. Now stop being poetic and let me help you to the bath before you bleed through another set of sheets."
Phuwin laughed—a breathy, surprised sound that hurt his ribs but felt good in his chest. "You have a way with words."
"I've had years of practice with this one." Clove jerked her head toward Pond. "He's been insufferable since he was eleven."
Pond's mouth opened, closed. He looked between them, and something in his shoulders eased—just a fraction, just enough. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."
"Good." Clove leaned down and slid her arm around Phuwin's back, her hand warm and steady. "On three."
Phuwin braced himself, his palm flat on the mattress, and when Clove's arm tightened, he pushed. The world tilted, his vision swimming, and he felt the stitches pull low in his belly—a deep, thrumming ache that made him gasp. But Clove's hand was firm on his back, her shoulder braced under his arm, and she took his weight like it was nothing.
"Easy," she murmured. "Small steps. The bath is through the door."
Phuwin's bare feet touched the floor, and the cold stone bit into his soles. He was still in the thin sleeping shift from the night before, the fabric wrinkled and stained at the hem, and he felt every inch of his weakness in the way his knees trembled, in the way his hand shook as he gripped Clove's shoulder.
"I can—"
"You can't," Clove said, not unkindly. "That's why I'm here."
They moved together, step by step, and Phuwin's breath came in short, shallow pulls, each one a negotiation with the pain. The doorframe loomed ahead, and he reached for it, his fingers finding the wood, his knuckles whitening as he held himself upright.
"Almost there," Clove said. "The bath is already filled. I had the maid heat the water before dawn."
Phuwin blinked at her, the realization slow. "You planned this."
Clove's mouth curved, just the corner. "I planned for you to survive the night. The bath was a hopeful addition."
Phuwin's laugh was thinner this time, more breath than sound, and he let Clove guide him through the doorway into the small bathroom. Steam rose from the copper tub in the corner, curling toward the ceiling, and the scent of something floral—jasmine, maybe, or gardenia—filled the air. Candles flickered on the sill of the single window, their flames doubling in the glass, and the light caught the water in a way that made it look liquid gold.
"When did you—"
"I have my ways." Clove released him slowly, her hand hovering at his elbow as he steadied himself against the wall. "Now. Let's get this shift off before you drown in it."
Phuwin's hands went to the hem of the sleeping shift, but his fingers felt thick, clumsy, and the fabric seemed to slip through them. He tried again, and again, and on the third attempt he let out a frustrated breath, his head dropping forward.
Clove's hands found his, gentle, prying them away. "Let me."
Her voice was softer now, stripped of the dry edge, and Phuwin let his arms fall as she lifted the shift over his head. The fabric slid across his skin, catching on his shoulders, and then the cool air hit his body—his stomach, swollen and tender, the bandage wrapped around his middle, the bruises blooming along his ribs like dark flowers.
He didn't look down. He didn't want to see what the night had done to him.
Clove's hands moved with practiced efficiency, unwinding the bandage, her fingers barely brushing his skin. She worked in silence, and Phuwin found himself grateful for it—for the absence of pity, of careful words, of the kind of kindness that felt like a door closing.
"The water is warm," Clove said finally. "Not hot. The healer said hot water might worsen the bleeding." She paused, her hands stilling. "I can help you lower yourself in, or I can step out and let you manage alone. Your choice."
Phuwin looked at the bath—the steam rising, the surface still, the way the candles painted the water in gold and shadow. He thought about being alone in the water, about the quiet and the warmth and the chance to breathe without someone watching. And he thought about his legs giving out halfway down, about cracking his head on the rim of the tub, about Clove finding him on the floor.
"Stay," he said. "If you don't mind."
Clove's expression didn't change, but her hand found his elbow again, steady and sure. "I don't mind."
Turning toward the tub, she guided him step by step, and Phuwin's hand found the copper edge, the metal warm from the steam. The water waited, fragrant and still, and he hesitated—not from fear, but from the weight of what it meant to let himself be held, to let someone else carry him when he had spent so long carrying everything.
"He's watching the door," Clove said, her voice low. "He hasn't taken his eyes off it since we left. He'll be there when you're done."
Phuwin's throat tightened. "I know."
"Then stop thinking and get in the bath before the water goes cold."
The laugh that escaped him was real, raw, and it loosened something in his chest. He gripped the copper edge and lowered himself, and Clove's arm stayed around his shoulders, taking the weight, easing him down until the water closed over his hips, his waist, his chest. The warmth sank into him, deep and enveloping, and he felt his muscles unclench—the tightness in his shoulders, the ache in his back, the knot in his stomach that had been there since he'd collapsed on the dining hall floor.
"Good," Clove murmured. "That's good. Just breathe."
Phuwin's head fell back against the rim of the tub, and he closed his eyes. The water lapped at his chin, and the steam wrapped around him like a blanket, and for a long moment there was nothing but the warmth and the quiet and the steady rhythm of his own breath.
When he opened his eyes, Clove was sitting on a low stool beside the tub, her hands folded in her lap, watching him with an expression he couldn't quite name.
"Thank you," he said. The words felt small. He said them anyway.
Clove's mouth twitched. "You owe me."
"I know."
"I mean it. I saved your life, I let you bleed on my floor, and now I'm sitting in a bathroom at dawn while you soak in water I paid a maid to heat. You owe me significantly."
Phuwin smiled, the expression coming easier than it had in days. "I'll find a way to repay you."
"You can start by telling me about Star."
The name landed like a stone in still water, and Phuwin felt the surface ripple. He looked at Clove, who was suddenly very interested in a loose thread on her sleeve, a flush creeping up her neck that the dim light couldn't quite hide.
"Star?" Phuwin repeated, and he heard the warmth creeping into his own voice.
"You mentioned her name. When you were half-conscious. You said she spoke of me." Clove's fingers picked at the thread. "I assumed it was the fever talking."
"It wasn't."
Clove's hands stilled. The flush deepened, spreading across her cheeks, and she didn't look up. "What did she say?"
Phuwin watched her—the way her shoulders had gone tight, the way her breath had caught, the way she was pretending not to care and failing completely. "She said you were kind," he said, and Clove's eyes flicked up, sharp and surprised. "She said you helped her once, at a gathering in the eastern province. That you found her a seat when no one else would, and that you made her laugh."
Clove's mouth opened, closed. "That was—that was years ago."
"She remembered."
The flush burned brighter, and Clove looked away, her hand moving to press against her neck as if she could cool the skin there. "She shouldn't have."
"She did." Phuwin's voice softened. "She mentioned your name one night, and I knew. I knew from the way she said it."
"Knew what?"
"That you meant something to her."
Clove's hand pressed harder against her neck, and the flush that had been creeping up her cheeks now spread across her collarbones, visible even in the dim candlelight. She said nothing for a long moment, her eyes fixed somewhere past Phuwin's shoulder, and when she finally spoke, her voice had lost its dry edge entirely.
"She's married."
"Widowed," Phuwin said softly. "Two years now. Her husband was a trader, died of a fever in the northern passes."
Clove's breath caught, a small sound that she tried to hide by clearing her throat. "I didn't know."
"She doesn't speak of it often. But she told me once that the only person who made her feel seen after he died was a woman at a gathering who gave her a seat and made her laugh."
Clove's fingers had stopped moving against her neck. She sat very still, her hands folded in her lap, and the silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft lapping of water as Phuwin shifted in the bath.
"I gave her my seat because she looked lost," Clove said finally. "That's all it was. One moment of common decency."
"And she remembered it for years."
Clove's jaw tightened, and she looked at him with something almost like accusation. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you asked." Phuwin's voice was gentle, unhurried. "And because I think you deserve to know that the small things you do—the ones you don't think about—they matter to people."
Clove's throat worked. She opened her mouth, closed it, and then let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh. "I walked into this room expecting to help you wash your hair, not to have my heart picked apart."
Phuwin smiled, the expression tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'm full of surprises."
"Clearly." Clove stood, smoothing her skirts, and reached for the cloth draped over the edge of the tub. "Turn around. Let me wash your hair before I say something I'll regret."
Phuwin shifted in the water, the motion slow and careful, and Clove's hand found his shoulder, guiding him until his back faced her. The water sloshed against the copper rim, and Phuwin's head dipped forward, exposing the nape of his neck where the hair was growing back in soft, uneven patches.
Clove's fingers found the cloth, then the small jar of soap on the windowsill, and she worked the lather into his hair with slow, deliberate strokes. The scent of jasmine rose from the water, mixing with the clean smell of the soap, and Phuwin let his eyes close, let his shoulders drop, let himself be held in the quiet rhythm of her hands.
"Your hair is growing back," Clove said, her voice low.
"Slowly."
"It will be beautiful again. It already is."
Phuwin's throat tightened. He didn't answer, didn't trust his voice, and Clove's hands continued their work, patient and unhurried, as if she had all the time in the world.