I can see detectives are sifting through the wreckage we have made
Monday, June 12 * Early morning and later in the day
Thirst woke her.
The Infirmary was dark and quiet, and for a few moments Vera didn't realize she wasn't in her own bed.
The slightest motion of one of her arms brought the realization of where precisely she was — and what she'd done — flooding down.
She tried to sit up but could not; Poppy had placed on her some sort of restraining spell.
Vector couldn't see her hands clearly, and neither could she feel them, really — the white of the bandages was visible dimly in the gloom, and all she felt was an itch, and a bone-deep chill. She could smell some sort of unguent which vaguely reminded her of cucumbers and mint.
Marf appeared at the bedside with a glass of water and held it to her lips. She accepted gratefully, then managed to convince him not to go wake Pomfrey.
No one else adult-sized seemed to be in the room — which meant Izabel must have escaped safely.
You said you just wanted to know, at any price. And now you do.
There had been a chair by the bedside, with a book atop it. Vera recognized it, and knew who'd been reading it. Her heart sank. Vera's head dropped back onto the pillow, and she closed her eyes.
Cassius had been right about one thing. She was a cold-hearted bitch. Vector thought about what had happened until the sedative's pull reasserted itself, and she slept fitfully until morning.