Page 8 of Her Creation

The iron on my shoulders left, and I realized it had been the strange man’s hands holding me in place. I tried to sit again, but the woman, with her own viselike grip, pressed me back down, stopping me.

“You should really stop that; I’m almost finished,” she warned.

I stilled. The soft authority of her voice left no room for anything but compliance. I followed the delicate line of her arm to see her long fingers expertly stitching the wound at my side where the plank had stabbed me.

At the sight, vomit filled my mouth and tipped over my lips and dripped down my chin and neck. I felt her turn my head sharply and press down until my mouth emptied.

She finished her stitching and took a moment to admire her work before giving me a small smile and moving to clean my face with not-so-gentle hands.

“Where am…” was all I got out before I blacked out completely.

When I woke again, the pain had lessened. My eyes adjusted to the view of a ceiling made of wood. The room was quiet and peaceful. I flexed my hands and stretched my fingers over a thin, cream blanket. I looked at its finely knit texture as I flexed my toes, relieved when everything moved as it should have.

“Clara, how are you feeling?”

I twisted my head to see the woman from earlier sitting on a small settee to the right of the bed.

Tension coiled inside my body, causing me to wince. I glanced across the room to see if the monster was there. He wasn’t. As if sensing my panic, the woman rose from her seat with slow, confident ease and came to stand at my bedside. There was something so odd and interesting about her.

The scent of dried roses and red wine with a whisper of incense brushed my nose as she approached. There was an air of authority that surrounded her I found myself envious of. I was surprised to find sadness anchored in her dark eyes when they met mine. She wore a warm ivory dress with delicate lace that went high up her slender neck and closed in the front with a Whitby jet brooch and matching black teardrop earrings.

“Who are you? Where am I, and how do you know my name?” I tried to sit up, but a sharp pain ripped across my stomach and caused me to collapse.

The woman rushed over and pressed a cool compress against my forehead. “Lie still.” Her commanding tone caused me to freeze. She softened immediately. “Lie back and I’ll explain everything.”

“I—my ship, Mick—they are all dead. He killed them all—I watched him.” My voice warbled.

Her tone sharpened slightly. “But you are not dead, are you?” She raised a single black brow.

“N-no,” I answered.

She nodded, and her dark brows pulled together slightly. “And do you know why?”

“No,” I breathed, rethinking my trust in the woman.

“Because Inno, who takes pity on no one, showed you mercy. Do you know why?”

“No,” I whispered again with a shake of my head.

Warmth touched her face, brightening it slightly. “He said you remind him of me and that, even though he only saw one thread of me in you, it was too much for him to harm you.”

My brows pinched together upon hearing her words. There was absolutely nothing about me that looked like her. She was elegant darkness, with confidence and ethereal features; nothing like my murky blond hair, sun-hardened face, and quiet countenance.

“Not in appearance, but in tribulations as a woman in an unwelcome field,” she added before continuing on. “It’s really quite an impressive thing, you see, as Inno has until this point shown no trace of empathy to another soul aside from myself, children, and animals. This is fantastic. This is why you are not dead. And in sparing you, he’s given us an answer to our problems.”

My head pounded painfully, but I tried to push it away. “You’re saying I’m not dead because that monster saw I was a female and decided to drag me to safety,” I muttered. Had my head not hurt as it did, I’d have rolled my eyes. It would be the first time being a woman had ever saved me from anything.

Her eyes hardened, and the forearm, which she rested on the edge of the bed, pressed against my side. I cried out in pain. “No. The only reason you are not dead is that I stitched you up and tended to your wounds. Should you refer to him again as a monster, I can promise you, you will not walk out of this room alive.” Her voice remained soft, making the threatening undertone more intense. “Do you understand?” She pressed her arm harder against my wound.

“Yes, yes! I understand,” I cried. I’d have told her anything she wanted to hear.

She slowly nodded and removed her arm to sit on the settee once again. “Your side required minimal stitching, but the cold plunge getting you here caused a bit of damage to your left hand and right foot.”

I wiggled the mentioned appendages, and my eyes widened in fear. They felt fine, if not sore.

“Unfortunately, frostbite set in badly, and I needed to remove three of the toes and a small part of the foot. You will probably walk fine eventually, just with a limp, but for a bit you will struggle. As for your hand, I’m confident you will regain feeling in it in due time, though when, I cannot say.”

“My toes? My toes are gone—part of my foot? But…I can feel them wiggling!” I cried out as I realized that was why I couldn’t place the odd feeling when I tried to move it. Tears leaked out of the corners of my eyes as I struggled to lift my leg, only to see it heavily bandaged. It occurred to me in that moment that I was completely at the mercy of the woman; there was no way I could run. Was it possible that she had done this intentionally, so I couldn’t escape?