With clean hands the chirurgeon took up her silver shears and began to cut through the makeshift bandages. Very little blood had seeped through, leaving the merest pinpricks of scarlet on the outermost layer. To see the wound again—the raw and ragged edge torn by serrated teeth—shot Shrike’s heart into his throat. Yet the frozen garnets of blood remained to seal it shut. Whether an aspect of the Holly King’s power or the remnants of a curse from the Lake of Eternal Ice, Shrike couldn’t say. Still, he gave thanks Wren had not bled out.
“He’s no worse off than William Wyncelowe,” Everilda declared.
Shrike shot her an alarmed glance. But, whilst her words had baffled him, to her they seemed to suggest that Wren stood a far better chance than Shrike had hoped for. Or so he judged by her serene face and the soft surety of her voice.
Her soft and serene surety continued as she murmured a brief spell. Shrike could not perceive its immediate effect, though he trusted it did what she wished it to do.
Then she reached forth and gently touched the frozen garnets. They melted at her fingertips.
Blood began to flow down Wren’s side.
Shrike had beheld bleeding wounds before. He’d caused most of them. Scores upon hundreds upon thousands throughout his centuries.
But to see Wren bleed staggered him.
Shrike swallowed hard and dropped his gaze to Wren’s face. Though his lips retained their bluish tint beneath the freckles Shrike loved so well, and a dark bruise had crept beneath his eyes, his visage still held the same serenity Shrike had seen laid beside him every night since the summer solstice. To this Shrike clung, and upon it he pinned all his hopes, closing his ears against the clink of silver instruments and the shuddering wet sounds of the chirurgeon’s work and turning them instead toward the faint whisper of Wren’s slow and steady sleeping breaths.
“Vinegar,” said Everilda.
Shrike glanced up. Nell handed the vinegar jug to Everilda, who uncorked it and poured it over Wren’s side. Shrike’s eyes followed the movements before his mind could catch them up and force them away. He glimpsed Wren’s wound again—stitched up with silver threads and smeared with gore, the streams of vinegar just barely beginning to wash it away—then forced his eyes away, down to Wren’s face, where Shrike kept his head cradled in his hands as if they could shield him from all this.
“Linen,” said Everilda.
This time Shrike knew better than to look up. In idleness he stroked Wren’s chestnut locks, tying and untying knots in his fingers’ wake. There, at least, the frost had long-since melted, freeing the soft strands from icicles like blades.
Only when Everilda withdrew from the work-bench to wash her hands and instruments in the hollow stump did Shrike dare lift his gaze again.
Vinegar had washed the blood from Wren’s body. Its pungent scent yet hung in the air. Pale linen bandages sewn together tight around him, the edges of their wrapping clean and crisp, hid allhis wound from sight. They shifted ever-so-slightly with each of his slow breaths.
“We may put him back to bed now,” Everilda announced, startling Shrike out of his reverie.
Shrike caught him up under his shoulders. Nell took command of his legs. Together they returned him to the nest. His head lolled against the pillow toward Shrike. A slight sigh escaped him, though his eyes remained closed.
“When shall I wake him?” Shrike asked, forcing himself to temper his hopes.
“In an hour or two,” Everilda replied.
Shrike’s heart soared to hear it.
“We’ve work to do in the meantime,” she continued. “The beast’s teeth have punctured his entrails.”
Shrike’s own entrails twisted at her words.
“He’ll need plenty of tea and broth to sustain him,” Everilda went on, heedless of Shrike’s inner turmoil. “Best start brewing now.”
Shrike leapt to do as she bid. Lavender and chamomile pulled down from the bundles hanging in the rafters alongside the copper kettle. The taps in the hollow stump filled kettle and cauldron alike with hot water which grew hotter as Shrike hung both over the hearth and stoked the flames. Nell went out to the garden for eggs and goat’s milk. She returned to crack the eggs into the cauldron and whisk them into gossamer strands amidst the boiling water. The milk joined the pot of honey on the stone slab beside the hearth, awaiting the tea.
“Is the old warren watch-tower in use?” Nell asked.
Shrike blinked at her. “Only to keep sheaves.”
“Even better,” Nell declared. “Might I borrow a few to make it fit to live in for the next fortnight or so?”
The request was not even half so odd as her bothering to ask permission to do as she wished. Shrike, still bewildered, nevertheless assented with a nod.
“You’ve got the ambassador and his brother arriving… well, within a few days, if he can find him and coax him into leaving Fathomseek,” she explained with a shrug. “Cottage is already a touch crowded. Thought it’d be better to set up camp not too far off. And if memory serves, Lofthouse prefers fewer eyes on him when he’s not wearing at least three shirts. Unless he’s making a rite of it.”
A chortle escaped Shrike despite all. “Aye, that’d do. Thank you.”
