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CHAPTER 50
It’s still dark when I open my eyes, and too many clouds blanket the sky to give any hint as to the hour. My bloody right hand is cradled to my chest, making me aware of the thick, coiled braid between the layers of my clothes. As soon as I recall what happened, I sit up straight, wincing as a number of hairs rip out, glued to the platform by thickening blood. Then I fight a wave of nausea that eases only to leave a pounding headache in its wake.
Where is he?
Cautiously, I lean over the edge and peer down. The roof of the arcade where he would have landed is clear, and there’s no movement on the scaffolds. Though I’m tempted to stay here until morning, my instincts tell me the killer has fled. I need to find Simon and tell him what I found.
Climbing down is slow and arduous, especially as I stop often to listen for signs the killer is still about. The cuts on my hand and fingers bleed freely again despite my efforts not to use them. Once my feet are on the ground, I want to run, but I don’t have the strength to do more than hobble the length of the Sanctum and down the street leading to the Montcuir house. Not wanting to cause a scene, I limp around to the kitchen door, hoping at leastone servant sleeps downstairs. I pound my good fist on the wood, but the sound is weak. “Help!” I croak. “Please! Somebody!”
Simon himself opens the door only a few seconds later, silhouetted by the golden light of a low fire. He had to have already been in the kitchen, but he blinks like he just woke up. “Cat?” His eyes widen as he takes in the sight of me. “Light of Day, what’s happened?”
I open my hand to show him. “It’s all my blood, but I’m all right.”
“Like hell you are.” Simon pulls me inside and shuts the door. Then he puts a finger to my lips and looks up at the ceiling for a few seconds. When we don’t hear anyone stirring above, he leads me to a wooden chair between a table and the hearth. “Sit,” he commands.
I obey. The seat is warm like he was in it before I arrived. Simon turns away to rummage in a cabinet. His blond curls are pressed flat on one side and the impression of wrinkled fabric is on the cheek below. “Were you sleeping here at the table?” I ask.
“Yes.” He uncorks and sniffs several bottles and jars, setting some aside and putting others back. “It was a bad night for Juliane. Worse than usual.”
A pot rests nearby on the table. I’m shivering with cold and shock and pain, and it looks heavenly. “Is that tea hot?” I ask, my teeth chattering. “Can I have some?”
“Grace and Light, no!” Simon swings around, balancing his chosen containers and a wad of linen bandages, and hastily drops it all on the table. He grabs the pot away and runs with it to the back door to dump it on the ground outside.
Shaking his head, Simon switches out the empty pot with a large wooden bowl on a shelf and brings that to the table. He fills it with steaming water from a kettle before bending over my head to study the cut in my scalp. I close my eyes as his long fingerscomb through my hair. “Not very deep,” he mutters. “I think it’s done bleeding, but it’ll still need to be cleaned.” Simon kneels in front of me and gently opens my hand. “What happened, Cat?”
“There was a collapse at the Sanctum,” I say, relieved he seems to have put aside my betrayal. “Three people were killed.”
Simon hisses in sympathy, either over my wound or the news. “Lambert told us. I’m sorry.” He dips a scrap of cloth in the bowl and begins wiping my hand. The water is warm but not hot. “These cuts happened within the last hour, though. What were you doing?”
“I was at the Sanctum, trying to discover what had caused it.” I sniff and wipe my nose with my free hand. “It’s my job to make sure these things don’t happen.”
Simon looks up sharply. “Did Remone blame you?”
“He had every reason to.”
Simon tosses the bloody rag on the table. “If Remone was in charge at the site, that makes it his responsibility,” he growls, angling my palm into the light. With his free hand, he opens a bottle and pours clear liquid onto a fresh cloth. The pungent fumes burn the inside of my nose. “This will sting,” he warns before putting the wet linen on my palm.
Sting isn’t the right word—it feels like I’m being slashed with a red-hot knife. I jerk away reflexively, but he holds on to my wrist. “Easy,” he says softly. “It won’t last long.”
I writhe in the chair as the pain slowly recedes to a bearable level. When he lifts the cloth away, I expect my hand to have a hole burned through the middle, but it looks the same. “What was that?”
“Alcohol, more pure than anyone would sanely drink. It will prevent infection.” Simon drops the bloodstained cloth onto the table and opens the lid of a clay jar, doing everything with his right hand. His left has never stopped holding mine.
“Are you still angry with me?” I ask timidly.
Simon scoops salve with two of his fingers and pauses to meet my eyes. “For lying about the hammer or for visiting the architect in the gaol?”
So he knows. I shift uncomfortably while he just raises his eyebrows and lets me fidget.
Finally, Simon looks back down and spreads ointment on my palm and fingers gentler than I expected him to. “The jug of stew you left was too wide to fit between the bars of his cell. It was still warm when I got there.” He sighs. “I gave it to him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” Simon wipes his fingers clean, then pulls up a long strip of linen. Swiftly, he wraps my hand with the bandage while I struggle and fail to come up with an adequate reply. He finishes looping the end around and ties it to the beginning. “This needs to be sutured, but I can’t do it. You’ll have to find a real healer soon.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“You’re welcome.” Simon uses the table to lever himself to a stand. “You scared the Light out of me, banging on the door covered in blood.” He soaks a fresh scrap in the water and angles my chin up to wipe the side of my face, studiously avoiding meeting my eyes. “So you were climbing around the Sanctum in the dark and what? You hit your head?”
