ALDRIC
I stood in the doorway and watched Morrigan direct the maids. Her voice carried across the room, crisp and clear, none of that rasping weakness that had marked her voice for over two years.
This renewed strength of hers made me sick to the stomach. I had been so close to taking her out without suspicion. Now I had to deal with her stupid saccharin ass again.
She gestured to the curtains, then to the bedside table, pointing out what needed to be moved, what needed to be cleaned, what needed to be thrown out entirely.
She looked good. Better than good. She looked like herself again. Oh. I hated it.
The maids scurried around her, nodding and murmuring agreements, their arms full of linens and bottles and the detritus of sickness. One of them carried a tray stacked with jars of herbs, the kind the healers had been forcing down Morrigan's throat for weeks. The smell of them still clung to the air, bitter and medicinal.
