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I drop my hands, and she takes a step back, colliding with the ladder.
I look up at the box. “What are you doing?”
“One of the bats is injured. A broken wing, maybe. I saw him gimping up the vine to get inside.”
“You can’t put your hand in there. They’ll bite. They may carry rabies.”
“That’s what the towel is for. The vet said I should throw it over him.”
I regard her with my hands on my hips. “The vet.”
“Yes. There’s one near Monte Casino who treats bats.”
The colony of bats has grown since Lina had the boxes installed. There’s even an owl that moved in. The ecosystem specialist said it keeps the mice at bay. Nature is playing out as it should, as Lina intended. Some mice make it. Some become owl dinner. Some bats break their wings.
“Is it wise to interfere?” What’s the point of cultivating a natural system if we keep on punching our human stamp onto it?
“We can’t just leave it like that,” she says, looking at me like I’m one of those bat haters who believes bats get entangled in your hair. “It’s suffering. I’ve got to fix it.”
Suddenly, I get it. Lina identifies with the bats. Her bat obsession is born from her need to be homed, to be cared for, to be fixed. She’s a woman with a broken wing, and there’s no one to throw the towel over her head and make it better.
Snatching the towel, I climb up the ladder.
“Careful, Damian. It’s fragile.”
“I know.”
“It’s in the left-hand corner. The wing hangs limp. Do you see it?”
There it is, the little creature with its turned-up nose and tipped ears that huddles on the floor while his buddies hang upside down from the pole at the top.
A warm hand touches my leg. “Do you see it?”
“Yeah, I see it.”
The box is too small to throw a towel inside. I climb back down and look for a stick.
“What are you doing?” she exclaims when I break a dry branch from the Acacia tree.
“Stand aside. We’ve got to get them out.”
She grabs my arm. “No. You’ll hurt them.”
“Trust me.”
The miracle is, she does. After a heartbeat, she lets go, biting her lip. “The vet doesn’t do house calls, dammit. This could’ve been so much easier.”
“Stand over there.” I point at the shady veranda.
She backs off reluctantly.
Pushing the stick through the hole in the box, I move it around. There’s a whole lot of protesting, chirping, and scurrying, and finally, they fly off, all except for the one with the broken wing. When he hops out and finds purchase in the vine, I gently drop the towel and grab the edges together.
“You have him,” Lina says, sounding breathless. “Here.” She opens a travel cage that stands on the ground. “Don’t open the towel. It may injure itself trying to escape.”
I deposit our patient inside, and she secures the trapdoor.
“Right. What now, bat nurse?”
“I need Russell to drive me to the vet.”
I don’t miss a beat. “Russell resigned.”
“What?”
Reading her carefully, I say, “Conflict of interests.”
She pales a little. She knew. She’s scared. She knows the depth of my possessiveness. “Are you going to punish me?”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” She didn’t flirt or lead him on.
“I thought you’d be angry.”
I’m a fucking beast, but I’m not unfair. “I’m not angry.”
A long breath leaves her chest.
“Brink is looking out for you now. You don’t leave this property without him or me.” I pick up the cage. “I’ll get one of the guards to drop this off at the vet.”
She catches my arm. “I’m going with.”
“You’re going back inside the house to rest.”
“I’m not a child.”
“You passed out under a whip this morning. You need more ointment, painkillers, and rest.”
“Whose fault is that?” she says under her breath.
“Don’t push me, Lina.”
She sobers at my tone.
“Go inside. If I don’t find you in the bedroom when I get there, you’re booked for another lashing when this one has healed.”
Her nostrils flare, and her eyes shimmer with angry tears, but she obeys.
After handing the injured bat over to one of the guards, I go upstairs and find Lina waiting in the room. She’s staring at the cold fireplace, hugging her stomach. Gently, I unfold her arms and arrange them at her sides. Bringing my arms around her from behind, I unbutton the shirt and push it over her shoulders and down her arms to fall around her heels. Kneeling, I pick the shirt up and press it to my nose. It smells like her. Sweet poison. The good kind of toxic. She makes me crazy. She makes me drag the little cotton shorts down her legs and leave them like a constraint around her ankles.
She trembles. I want her. She knows.
I want her for two reasons. One, she gave me a shawl when no one else gave a fuck, and, two, because her father said I couldn’t have her. All the wrong reasons, yes. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to take care of her. On the contrary, I take excellent care of what’s mine, and she’s mine as sure as her forever with me is carved in diamonds. She’s worth more than stone.
