Idris moved to close the door, and Seraphina helped the mother lay her son on one of the two beds behind the curtain. His sister hovered, crying and hugging him, asking about their father.
The boy – Axel – shook his head, tears running down his dirty cheeks.
“He’s gone. I saw him fall with my own eyes. I crawled to him, tried to pull him to safety so they wouldn’t trample him,but a musket ball hit me, and I don’t know… I don’t know… I ran. I didn’t want to die there, alone. I’m so sorry, Mama. I’m a coward. I should’ve stayed and fought, avenged his death. I just didn’t… I didn’t want to die alone.”
“My boy…”
Seraphina pried the girl away from her brother, even as she fought her. She placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder.
“Let the surgeon work.”
Idris was already unfolding his kit, but if he was to save the boy’s life, he needed space.
“You won’t die,” he said.
He held up a Staunching Lattice, and at the sight of it, the woman and the girl gasped. That was what convinced them to step away from the bed. Suddenly, they were looking at Idris with different eyes, with a mix of fear and respect. He wasn’t just a surgeon, he was someone who wielded sacred bones.
He lay it across Axel’s chest, and the linen remained crisp and clean even as it came into contact with blood. The material simply didn’t absorb it, nor was it stained by it.
He handed a Quetus Net to Seraphina and asked her to find a way to pin it above the bed. Seraphina went for the obvious solution – the curtains.
Idris cut the boy’s shirt, cleaned the wound, and noted that the musket ball was still inside. He asked for water to wash his hands. While he worked, no one spoke. It took him thirty minutes to locate and extract the ball, irrigate the wound and inspect it carefully, suture it and wrap a bandage around the shoulder. Axel didn’t move, his senses dulled by the Quietus Net. Once done, Idris washed his hands again and proceeded to meticulously clean and disinfect his tools.
“It’s gone silent,” Seraphina said.
They all looked at her, even Axel, who was drowsy.
“It’s over,” the woman said.
Seraphina shook her head and went to one of the windows, pressing her ear to it. There were a few more musket cracks, but that was it, and then she heard someone shouting.
“We won,” the woman said again, her eyes going wide.
Seraphina pursed her lips and looked at Idris, who was packing his satchel in a hurry.
“Stay here,” she said. “We’ll go see what’s going on.”
Could it really be over?
She and Idris stepped outside and quickly closed the door behind them. She didn’t care if they couldn’t go in again; she didn’t want to. They’d done their part here, and all she wanted was to get back to Bramble and put distance between them and the front line.
The air was saturated with black powder smoke, and smelled of sulfur, blood, and scorched flesh. Deeper into the village, Seraphina saw men carrying the wounded and piling the dead. Idris started walking that way, and she caught him by the arm.
“We should go.”
“I can help,” he said.
“We’re not here for that. Let’s just go.”
He turned to her fully and planted his feet, arms crossed over his chest.
“What are we here for?”
Seraphina bit the inside of her cheek. What was she supposed to tell him?
A cry of agony pierced the silence, and Idris whipped his head to the right, looking for the source. He ignored Seraphina as he walked between two houses and found a man lying on the ground, the snow around him turning bright red. Alive, but barely. He wore a dark gray and black uniform.
“No,” Seraphina said when Idris knelt to see where he was bleeding from. “Not him.”
