Illyra had already smoothed the coverlet. Gilla laid Latilla down and reached out for the first compress without looking away. But she was aware of Lalo close beside her, and she drew on his energy as Illyra had drawn upon hers when they made their spell. After a little, the fanning and the cold cloths seemed to have some effect, and Latilla fell into an uneasy doze.
The first crisis over, Lalo had gone to his worktable and was fussing with his paints, laying them out instinctively as if work could help him control the chaos of his world.
“Oh Gilla,” said Illyra pitifully, “she looks so like my little girl!” Gilla met her eyes, and the S’danzo flushed painfully. At her words, Lalo looked up at her.
“Where are the finished cards?” he asked then. “There were only a few to be done-if I complete the deck, perhaps you can read some hope for us now!”
Illyra stared at him, and her face went stark white against the dark masses of her hair. Then her gaze slid unwillingly to the table in the comer, where the cards were still as she had laid them a week ago. Still unsuspecting, Lalo went to it and stood, looking down.
Gilla’s flesh had turned to stone. Lalo was no S’danzo, but he was a master of symbol, and he had painted those cards. She tried to read his reaction in the slump of his shoulders, the bent head with its thinning, ginger hair. Surely he must know!
“I don’t understand,” Lalo said in a still voice. “Did you try to read from an incomplete deck? Is this your Seeing for what is happening now?” Suddenly his hand shot out and he swept the fatal pattern of cards to the floor. He turned and read in their faces the answer to a question he had not even thought to ask.