"Yes, Your Grace," Lance Illian responded at once before withdrawing.
When he had gone, Rhaegar looked down at Caelith, bitter remorse tightening his chest.
Had he perceived Yvaine's scheme sooner, Caelith would never have suffered such a calamity.
Her face was flushed an unnatural red, her breathing uneven. Rhaegar forced himself to steady his thoughts, suppressing the dangerous stirrings within him. He could not—must not—use such a method to counter the poison while she was not in her right mind. And this place was far from safe.
After a brief moment's consideration, he bent and lifted her into his arms.
The instant her body touched his chest, he felt the heat of her skin—scalding, fragile, boneless in its weakness. She seemed almost to burn against him, exuding a perilous allure that tested even his iron restraint.
Without hesitation, he carried her out of the charity hall and into a waiting carriage, then ordered the driver to return at once to Firefly Lane.
