Trafalgar kept Maledicta against Esmond's throat for one breath longer, watching the old man's skin crease around the blade. Esmond had stopped struggling, but that meant very little. Men like him never truly surrendered. They simply changed the shape of the knife in their hand.
Trafalgar glanced toward Caelum.
Caelum understood at once. He shifted one hand from Matteo's wound long enough to draw a potion from inside his coat, uncorked it with his teeth, and pressed the vial against Matteo's mouth.
"A healing potion," Caelum said, forcing the old scholar's chin up. "Swallow."
Matteo made a rough sound, half protest and half pain, but Caelum did not give him the dignity of refusing. The potion slid down his throat in a pale red shimmer, and Matteo coughed once before the tension drained from his face. His eyes fluttered, his fingers scraped weakly against Caelum's sleeve, and a moment later his body went slack.
Selara's pistol dipped. "Is Matteo all right?"
