Cormac’s eyes went wide, and he turned his head away. The weight of the truth hit her then. Not only had Halverton shot Cormac, but she had seen him do it.
Clara returned, closing the door firmly behind her. She dragged a chair across the floor and wedged it under the handle. “Just in case,” she murmured.
She carried the supplies to the bedside and laid them out neatly. “What do I do?”
“Give him a little of the alcohol,” Aoife said.
Cormac took a swallow, coughed, then sagged against the pillow. Aoife held out her hand for the bottle.
“Clara,” she said. “Whatever happens here, I’ll stand between Halverton and you. I can’t say it’ll count for much, but you have my word.”
Clara blinked at her, startled. “Thank you, miss.”
Aoife managed a faint smile. “We’re friends, aren’t we? This is what friends do. It’s why we’re both in this mess,” she looked down at Cormac, “because friends help each other.”
“This is going to hurt,” she warned. Then she lifted her hand from the wound and poured the alcohol over it.
He cried out, thrashing weakly.
“Quiet,” Clara hissed, listening for footsteps.
Aoife tugged the leather bracelet from her wrist, the one Cormac had made her, and pressed it between his teeth. “Bite down.”
The poker glowed dull red in the fire. Clara wrapped a blanket around the handle before pulling it out and passing it over. Aoife took it carefully, her hand trembling faintly.
She hesitated, meeting Cormac’s eyes. He gave her a small, weak nod. The trust in that gesture nearly broke her.
She pressed the hot iron to the wound. The hiss was instantaneous. The smell of burning flesh threatened to choke her. Cormac’s body arched once, then went limp.
Clara turned away, retching into the bedpan. Aoife didn’t move until the hissing stopped.
“Is it over?” Clara asked, voice shaking.
“Half.” Aoife’s own voice sounded strange in her ears. “We have to do the other side.”
They set the poker in the coals. The metal disappeared beneath the flames, swallowed by the heat.
For a moment, neither woman moved.
Clara wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, still pale. Aoife pressed a damp cloth to Cormac’s forehead, though he didn’t stir.
The fire popped as a log settled. The poker did not yet glow.
Clara whispered, “How long…?”
“A few minutes,” Aoife murmured. Her voice sounded scraped raw. “Not long.”
But the minutes stretched thin.
They knelt there in the flickering light, watching the faint dark outline of the poker grow red at the edges.
Clara’s breath hitched once.
Aoife swallowed; her arm shook as she applied pressure to the wound.
The iron brightened dull red, then hotter.
“It’s ready,” Aoife said at last.
