Edward set the cup and basin aside, picking up a small stack of gauze even as the scent of blood, diluted in alcohol, suffused more of the room. It was one of the furthest things from his mind even as he walked back, saying, "Open."

Short words, but never quite clipped or commanding. They were a list, somewhere in the foreground of a massive attention sink.

"He's--" there's a small shake of his head. "--from a very different time and place."

He says it to tell her, to tell himself. It still doesn't matter.