“What’s happened? Where are you hurt?”
He still hadn’t removed his hand, and she worried about what he held pressure to. The cuts on his chest, at least, appeared shallow, but he didn’t act as if he were giving into a fit of terror, relieved in his escape.
He acted as if he were bleeding out.
He didn’t answer her but instead leaned forward. She could feel the press of his forehead against her shoulder, his breath shallow and warm against her neck. If he gave up supporting himself entirely, she’d fall beneath him, she knew. She pushed against his shoulders.
“Urchin—” she began.
“Don’t call me that.” His voice was muffled and ragged, more so because his mouth, already masked, was now buried against her.
She huffed, annoyed in spite of his attempts at dying, because what else was she supposed to call him? “Was it the wolves? Did they overpower you?”
“Six,” he breathed. “All dead.”
Six? Her eyes were wide as moons. “What wound are you hiding?”
“My…neck.”
He slumped further against her, and Alora grunted at the added weight. “How do I help you? Whom should I fetch?”
“No one. Just…stay here.”
His voice had grown softer, almost distant. Alarm rang throughout her body. All she could smell was his blood. “You are not dying today, Urchin. Drudge up what strength you have left.” Then she released one shoulder to find where his grip had slipped between them. She felt about blindly until tattered skin and a warm wetness met her fingertips. She fought a gag, holding tight to the wound.
“If you die against me, I will be endlessly traumatized.”
A wheeze of a laugh met her ears. “I will do my best…to avoid it.” But more of his weight added to her own.
“Urchin!”
“Don’t…”he sighed.
Shouts rang out behind them, and Alora released a cry in relief.
Help had come.
In seconds, the Urchin captain was hauled off her, his body carried away by more hooded and masked men and several others dressed in the gold and crimson of Opulence. Alora tried to see where they took him, to see what they did, but he was lost to the sudden swell of people.
“His neck is wounded!” was all she managed to shout before he was gone from her sight, and only then did she realize she was crying.
“Miss Pennigrim,” said a familiar voice. It was slow and deep, and Alora turned to find the groundskeeper at her elbow, eyeing her front. “Are you hurt?”
“No, Mister Macaw. It’s the poor captain’s blood.”
He nodded, and glanced beyond her, spying the golden boots from amongst the ferns. “Talk little,” he said to her, then lumbered off toward the body.
Talk little…
“Miss Pennigrim!”
Alora twisted away from the body being hauled from the brush to find Merridon making quick strides toward her. Madam Feebledire followed behind with a pinched expression, and when their eyes met, Alora scowled so deeply her vision blurred. That heinous woman tried to takeeverythingfrom Reginald.
Madam Feebledire blinked in shock back at her, but she said nothing, glancing instead to Merridon when he stopped in front of her.
“My dear, you are covered in blood!”
“It isn’t mine,” she said, already tiring.
