"After several long, backbreaking hours, Gregori straightened up, his hair damp with perspiration, his face weary and lined, his body aching with fatigue. "I have done my best. If she lives, she will be able to have a child. Mikhai's blood and the soil should complete the healing process. The change is taking place rapidly. She does not understand and does not fight it." He pushed a hand stained with her precious blood through his hair. "She fights only for Mikhail's life, thinks only of his life and how her death would affect him. I think it is better if she does not understand what is actually happening to her. She does not know the extent of her wounds. There is much pain. She suffers greatly, but she is not a quitter, this one." Jacques was already preparing new poultices to replace the blood-soaked ones. "Can we give her more blood? She is still losing more than I like, and she is so weak, I fear she will not live through the night." "Yes," Gregori replied tiredly, thoughtfully, "but no more than a pint or two. We must do this slowly or we will alarm her. What she would accept unconditionally in Mikhail, she will not accept in herself. Give her my blood. It is potent, like Mikhail's, and he grows weak trying to breathe for her and keep her heart going." "You are tired, Gregori," Jacques protested. "There are others." "Not with my blood. Do as I say." Gregori seated himself calmly and watched as a needle was inserted into his vein. No one argued with Gregori; he was a law unto himself. Only Mikhail could truly call him friend or command him. Celeste drew in a deep breath, wanting to say something to Gregori that would indicate her admiration, but a look in his eyes stopped her. Gregori was calm in the eye of the storm, but he was lethal in his coolness."