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“Aye,” Alesoun agrees, “but that doesn’t answer the question, now does it?”
I frown. She’s right. I don’t have any surgical tools or an easy way to dig a bullet out.
“I can do it,” I say firmly. “But I’m warning you, Patrick, this is going to hurt.”
“Will I be able to keep and use my arm?” he asks through gritted teeth.
“It’s your best chance,” I say. “But I can’t promise it.”
He looks at Alesoun. James and Johnne look at her too, trusting her opinion.
“She’s not wrong,” Alesoun says. “I do nae have tha skill to remove tha bullet though.”
“Fine,” Patrick sobs. “Do it.”
“Give me your knife,” I say, holding out my hand towards the two men.
James hands me his knife. I hold it in my hand for a moment, feeling its weight and balance. It’s a good knife. I place the tip above the open wound, take a deep breath, and slice down. Patrick cries out and bucks, fighting to get away.
“Hold him!” I yell.
James and Johnne grab him.
“Get in here and help,” Johnne orders and two more men join the struggle to hold Patrick down.
I place the knife parallel to his collar bone beside the bullet hole. Another deep breath to steady my hands, and then I push in and slice across. He fights but the men hold him. The screaming, even the staring onlookers, are all part of another universe. For me the entirety of my attention is on getting this bullet out.
Having widened the opening, I use the tip of the knife to probe until I feel it hit the steel of the bullet. Carefully, I work it out, a centimeter at a time. I don’t know how long it takes but it feels like an eternity before there is the gleam of the steel and am able to grab it out with my fingers.
“Got it!” I exclaim, holding it up proudly.
A few cheers echo through the house. Not resounding but at least some positive response. Patrick is bleeding profusely but there’s no spurting so by some miracle the bullet and my make-shift surgery missed any arteries. His color is fading though, and his eyes are drifting shut. He’s losing too much blood.
“I need a needle and thread,” I order.
“I’ve got oil here, ready,” Alesoun says. “You can cauterize the wound with it.”
“No,” I say. “Needle and thread. Let me finish this.”
Alesoun stares at me with not only a lack of comprehension but disbelief.
“Alesoun, please.”
She shakes her head and goes to her small cabinet, then returns with a needle and thread. I set to work sewing him up neatly. At last, I straighten. The stiffness in my back from being hunched over him this entire time is accented by my spine cracking.
“There,” I say. “He needs rest, but he should be okay.”
“Good,” Johnne says.
I’m suddenly and acutely aware of the stares. It feels as if I’m on display or I walked into class and forgot to dress for the day. I turn around to face the crowd. Dozens of eyes are all trying to see into the house and witness what the outlander is doing to Patrick.
I lock eyes with Agnes who is closest to the door. She has a dark, almost evil look on her face. Her lips are pressed tight, and she narrows her eyes. We lock gazes for a heartbeat, then she shakes her head ever so slightly. Deliberately slow, she makes the sign of the cross and turns her back.
James and Johnne lift Patrick and carry him out of the house. My stomach sinks to the floor, then a wave of nausea so strong I almost lose it strikes. I wrap my arms around myself and rub my arms, breathing through the nausea.
I may have saved Patrick’s life, but I have done nothing to improve my standing with the rest of the villagers who seem more convinced than ever that I am a witch.
Chapter Seventeen
