Falstaff cut, unseaming my flesh in one smooth, precise glide. It stung as the blade parted my skin, though not as much as the whip, but it was too late to take back the hiss through my teeth.
“‘Tis but a scratch, laurel,” he tutted, helm intent on the vial that filled with my blood. “‘Tis enough. Seal it.” Neck craning, I beheld as he lifted the fruit of his labours up to the light, handling it delicately. It looked like the blood of any other Thromarrian—like Demetri’s that had run down his back, or the cobbler’s that had streamed from his tongue, or the crusiax’s thighs, or the wings of the owl; red, viscous, bright.
A sob bubbled up from the depths of me, and I had no strength to banish it away.
He isn’t coming.
Pietr tore a square from the linens and pressed it to the gash, a fresh spike of pain spearing outwards. Though clean, it must have run deep, for the white cloth dripped red in the span of a few breaths. He ripped off some more, scrunching the fabric and wedging into my skirts.
Meanwhile, Falstaff pocketed the vial and swivelled back to the cot, a smugness in the rigid angle of his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. “Whereas the chest, the dwelling of the lungs and the heart, harboureth phlegm: a thick, gelatinous humour thought able to temper and dull hysteria or panic. A stopper, if thou wilt. A safeguard against disturbance.”
“You lecture as though I am your tutee, and not a cadaver for your perverse curiosities.” My voice shook, though not as much as his hands.
“The blood that courseth through the heart is a feverish thing,” he continued, ignoring me as the acolytes pressed harder. “Roaring with emotion that, if left unchecked, would consume us. Yet, we cannot crack open thy chest this day to slice into thy heart, laurel”—I could almost picture his sullen pout behind the mesh—“for as enlightening as such a thing might be, His Eminence hath insisted that thou remain alive.”
Without warning, Throllo pinched my neckline, stretching it taut. Before I could register why, Falstaff’s scalpel severed it into two, down to my navel, the folds of grey wool parting to the sides like petals.
I lay exposed to them, the parts of me that were mine, and mine alone, on display for their whims.
It wasn’t lust that quickened Falstaff’s chest, but another, uglier pleasure. One he gleaned from humiliation, panic, and pain. I tempered a sob, resolute to not cry. Men like Falstaff made merry from tears and Iwouldlook as they did this to me.
I would look.
“If we took a sample from you, Druid, no matter the source, would it make cocks shrivel and maidens flee?” I asked.
His anger was good. Anger meant time. Time for Vetrius to arrive, or time toplummet together.
He peeled his gaze from my breasts, his grip hardening on the blade.
“The Blood God hath deemed fit to enact an additional penance, for the vileness of thine tongue. I hath allowed you too many quips, and my patience is spent. I’ll be taking it, once we’re done, laurel. Thou hast used it to blaspheme for the last time.” He nudged the scalpel to the dip of my throat, a small sting insinuating that he’d drawn blood. “A heathen’s eyes, a seamstress’ tongue…perchance I’ll add a crusiax’s ears to the collection.The face of insubordination, I’ll call it, when I lay them forth before mine enclave.” He retracted the scalpel. “Butnot yet. Not before we take a sample fromhere.” Pressing one knobular finger into the soft mound of my breast, he indented its skin, a hair width from the peak of my nipple.
My scream was a wild thing, swirling in the base of my throat, but I clamped my lips down, locking it in like an Unmantle made flesh. He would not get to seeeverypart of me.
“A woman’s breasts are a marvel, are they not?” Falstaff mused, the acolytes sniggering as they clung to my body. “Simple men, given to lesser virtues, seem oft fascinated by them, long after they are babes.” He drew circles with the scalpel’s point around the darker circle of tissue, puckering my skin until it bordered on pain. The softness of me shook under his touch, quivering like the cobbler on straw.
It was too late now. Vetrius would not come. Demetri and I would not plummet together. My blessing had deserted me when I needed it most. All I could do was endure.
“Even if thy own are rather fair, I hath never understood the obsession myself—they are but flesh, sinew, fat. But theblood…” A ripple of something unnameable tremored through him; it was a wonder I could not hear the rattle of his bones. He pressed the knife harder into my skin. “If taken from a woman’s bosom, it adopts the properties of milk—replenishing, restoring, building strength…evenpower.”
He cut.
It was a gnarly attempt, what with the shaking of his hands. I beheld it from the head of the cot, as if the body he carved into was no longer mine, the tissue opening to reveal layers of veins, fibrous muscle and fat, yellow beneath the flushed pink flesh. Blood welled at once, dark and bright, beading like garnets across the incision. It hurt. Oh, yes, ithurt.But in a different way to the whip, or a strike, or a kick. Instead of burning, instead of an ache, it was clarifying.
He wasn’t coming, and neither was my blessing. “Remember to pinch it, Throllo, to channel the blood. Taketh this, Arthun.” Falstaff passed a vial to the acolyte at my feet, taking care to lower the scalpel until it rested with the blade overhanging the edge of the bed. “Take of each humour a measure, whilst I make mine inquisition.” He leered over me, the tinkling of the vial in his pocket punctuating the rush of blood in my ears. “I’ll be back for thy tongue, and mineeyes.Let them watch. Blood Demands Blood.”
The door clicked shut as Falstaff left.
“Pinch it,” Pietr reminded Throllo as his hand veered to my breast. “Pinch it tight.”
The breath it took Pietr to replace Throllo’s hand on my wrist was all that I needed.
With one slash of the shard, Throllo’s throat split, warmth from above spilling into my mouth, drenching me in the heat I had longed for my blessing to bring.
And that’s when I felt it…the flower bloom in my chest.
Chapter thirty-six
Lycandor
