Thump, thump, thump.What must it feel like to smell and taste everything? To hold on your tongue the desires of even the most twisted and wicked of beings? Of Falstaff?
“What about the other?”
“The blessing of healing?” He plucked my hand from his heart, lowering it. “Now,thatis truly a gift. It has served me, and a fairfew others, quite well. Though, none have appreciated a licking half as much as you.” I pinched my brows at the smile lacing his words.
He jutted his head towards my other palm. “What are you holding on to, Seamstress?”
I clutched them tighter.
He beckoned, fingers curling. “Show me.”
I hesitated.
He waited.
“Her eyes,” I eventually confessed. “Esioul’s. He gave them to me… I-I have to give them back.”
Dropping his hand, he strode to the bedside table, rifling through the drawer. Glass clinked, and he lifted a bottle, a clear liquid sloshing within. “Distilled spirit,” he explained, holding it up for me to examine. “It will preserve them; the salt from your skin will only damage them further. Give them to me, Ashara. I promise, they’ll be safe.”
My lips twitched, knuckles loosening.
“If you give them to me, I have something to give to you in return.”
“A druid’s pardon?”
“You already have that.” He jiggled his hand, something rattling within the cage of his palm. “This is something better; something you thought lost.”
I straightened at that, his trick tempting as it was cheap.
With a last gentle squeeze, I surrendered her eyes, stretching my fingers for the first time in a turn, the joints stiff and reluctant. He plonked, one by one, the deep, near-black of her irises into the solution. They whirred before sinking to the bottom. Corking it, he placed it on a shelf.
“Away from the heat,” he clarified. “Here—” Taking my wrist, he manipulated my fingers to open, the fist of him resting in the centre of mine. After a breath, he splayed his hand.
Two buttons, their edges scalloped and rough, dropped into my palm. I sucked in a breath and brought them close to my face, my finger skimming their charred, burnt edges.
“I polished them as best I could, but the scorching would not fully absolve. Now, to the cot.” He pointed at the four-poster, clearing his throat. “You need stitching.” Boiled thread and a needle already lay waiting on the table to its side. “And to be cleaned.”
I stared at them for what felt like an age, until I could stare no more. Pocketing them with a sniff, I approached the bed wordlessly, the words I wanted to say piling up in my chest, unable to spill. I paused at the foot of it, eyeing the stark white of the sheets.We fly together.
“I can get a sister?” he asked, mistaking my hesitancy. “Though we may have to wait since most are in the Great Hall.” He rubbed at the back of his neck under the chain.
The thought of anyone’s hands on me but his turned my stomach.
“I want you to do it.” Mounting the bed, I turned to lay on my back, head softened by a cushion. The scent of jasmine and fire was faint, as if he hadn’t graced the sheets for some time.
With a nod, he made for the hearth to retrieve a small pot of water. Dipping a cloth into its belly, he wrung it out, the water running down like a brook into the dips and valleys of his hands and forearms.
“It’s warm,” he assured, catching my stare. I fixed my gaze on the wooden panels above.
“Go ahead.” I breathed hard through my nose as he removed the crude padding at my hip. Without its pressure, the pain sharpened, and I jolted at the first press of the cloth.
“Stop squirming. You’ll only make it weep.” Another press, another squirm. “Seamstress, don’t make me tie your wrists to the posts.”
My grimace bled to a smile. “If anyone tries to tie me to a bed again, Druid, I’ll slit their throat.”
The cloth stilled. “I’m glad to hear it. If I ever attempt such a thing, be sure to make it quick. It would be no small sin to dare say I’d enjoy it.”
The tinkle of water and crackle of flames were not enough to drown my clamorous heart, or perhaps it was the buttons; the pulsing reminder of them in my pocket as much a burden as a comfort.
