He does have a terrible knack for it, and Morgana's knack is for arriving late. She practically skids around the corner, one hand bunched in her skirts to keep from tripping herself. She rushes to them, drops on Zane's other side. There's so much blood, the scent is coppery and familiar and she feels panic rising, the inevitable uncertainty, I don't know if I can heal this.

Because she is not naturally inclined to this. She wasn't taught this, not properly. Not the way she was taught to destroy. But Zane is hurt, and if she does nothing, he will die. It doesn't matter that he'll wake up. He will die.

She swallows past her tight throat, and reaches out to nudge Charles' hand - and his cardigan - away. "It's fine," she says, and her voice is calmer than expected, steady. "You'll be all right." It's more order than statement. You'll be all right. Morgana stretches her hand out, thinks you're a High Priestess, and her eyes glow. It's slow; organs stitching back together seamlessly, then muscle and cartilage and skin. There's a strange sort of painlessness to it, at the very least.