"What are you doing up?!"
I didn't sound like a question. My bare feet hit the marble steps and my voice bounced off the glass like a warning.
Ansel looked at me from the bed. He moved slow, careful. One hand clutched a towel against his shoulder. The towel hid blood, fresh and dark. He had always been good at hiding things.
"You should be asleep," he said.
"I'm back," I said. "I won't leave you this time."
He blinked. Blank, then tight. "Julieta—"
"Not that name. Not the echoes." I stepped closer. Martha appeared in the doorway, eyes hard as a pair of knives. She set a tray down and stayed by the door like a guard.
"Miss Julieta," Martha said, low and steady. "You know the stairs are slippery. Don't—"
"I know," I said. "I slipped last life. I learned that."
Ansel's jaw tightened. "This is private."
"Nothing about you is private when it's my turn to fix it." I moved to the bedside and took the bottle of antiseptic without asking. My fingers remembered the familiar weight. I didn't explain why I didn't leave. I didn't need to. I had tried the polite thing once. It didn't stick.
"You're not allowed," he said.
"Since when do I ask permission?" I said. I rubbed the cotton over the wound, pressing down. He hissed.
"You're making it worse."
"It's not worse, it's getting sealed." I
