You are still young-you can have other children.”
“What for?” Illyra said harshly. “So that this town can kill them, too?” She sank back upon the silken pillows with which the Aphrodisia House furnished even a sickroom and closed her eyes.
From somewhere on the floor below them came a mocking echo of music. The faded silk of the cushions glowed softly in the afternoon light, but to Gilla they seemed as colorless as everything else had been since that terrible day when so many died. Illyra was right-why give more hostages to malicious fate?
Someone scratched hesitantly at the door. When neither Gilla nor Illyra answered, it opened softly and Myrtis, a little thinner, but as impeccably painted and jeweled as ever, came in.
“How is she today?” She gestured toward the half-S’danzo, who lay with her eyes tightly closed.
Gilla got to her feet and moved heavily to meet the older woman-at least one assumed that Myrtis was older, and today she looked it, as if the spells by which Lythande had preserved her famous beauty were fading too. Molin Torch holder’s gold had paid for Illyra’s convalescence here, but the famous madam of the Aphrodisia House had given them more than a landlady’s care.
“The scar is healing, but Illyra grows weaker,” Gilla said in a low voice. “I think she does not want to live. And why should she?” she added bitterly.
For a moment Myrtis’s eyes glittered. “Do you need a reason? Life is the only thing there is! After all she’s survived, and you, too, are you going to give up and let them win?” Her gesture seemed to encompass everything outside the room.