Page 124 of Florescentia

With a heave, the barn door rollers squealed on their track. Red light crept across the hay-swept floor. A small figure slumped in the corner.

“Nina!” The word was more hopeful, but there were tears. I nearly choked on them too.

This isn’t right . . . My mother is alive, I thought.

If my father had traded me for my mother to fall in love with him, was this some sort of cruel punishment?

Her knees were pulled to her chest and her back was to us; when she turned, her face was so warmly lit by the firelight that I almost didn’t notice the blood on her cheek.

She turned fully, her arm shredded, hanging by a generous thread of connective tissue. Shards of shrapnel peppered her skin surrounding the wound.

“You’re still awake.” His sigh of relief.

His hands cupped her face, and she placed her hand over his with a lethargic smile.

A gold band on his finger . . . and the same on hers.

They were already in love, married.

My heart sank. This wasn’t making any sense! What was the point of such a useless bargain if he already had what he wanted?

I looked over beside her in the open stall, a soldier splayed on the ground, the shaved bedding soaking up the blood and a shotgun lying just as discarded as he was.

“We have to go.” My father’s words burst through me. It was like I was a passenger in his body.

She nodded slowly, dozing off.

He gave her face a couple of gentle slaps. “Hey. Hey”—he lifted her face—“we have to remove it and stop the bleeding.”

Her eyes went wide, but his grip on her face tightened as he pulled their foreheads together.

My mother cried in his arms.

“I know, I know. Please,” he begged her, “we are getting out. But we have to go.”

He let her cry, allowed her space to spend her sorrows, even if it was some of the only energy she had left. He held her with the certainty that they would survive . . .

Because he had already struck his deal. But she didn’t know that.

The gunshots neared, the echoes through the valley more frequent as the fire over the hills grew.

My mother took a deep breath. It wasn’t a certain one, but it was a brave one.

She leaned back against the stall door. She tipped her head toward the heavens. Then she nodded, turning her head away.

My father pulled on his belt with one hand, snapping it off to hand to her.

She bit down on the leather, her teeth already indenting it.

He took the axe from beside the anvil, glancing briefly to the outside. The entire town was in flames, and soon the countryside would be too. It wouldn’t be long before the barn itself was reduced to ash, even on the high hill.

He didn’t count or give warning.

With one hoist and a swing, he severed the remaining threads connecting the arm to her shoulder.

My mother screamed, and he threw the axe away to hold her. He tore off his shirt, pressing it to her wound and scooping her into his arms.

She cried, shaking.