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Then he felt a pull on something within himself—too deep, far too deep—and Dr Venier drew out something that unraveled wet and crimson.
Fiore had no strength to scream. His arm clenched tight around Enzo’s shoulders. A strangled sound escaped his throat.
“Halt a moment,” Enzo ordered. Belatedly, Fiore realized he spoke to the chirurgeon rather than to him, for when Enzo did turn his face down to meet Fiore’s panicked gaze, he spoke on in a far gentler tone. “It’s all right.”
“What’s—” Fiore choked out, the remainder of the question lost in the pounding of his pulse in his ears.
“The wounds are deep,” Enzo explained after some hesitation. “There’s bandages within as well as without, to keep the outer wounds open whilst the inner ones heal first.”
Fiore tried to keep track. His mind took in the tone of Enzo’s voice moreso than the words. At last he managed, “This is routine, then?”
Enzo’s apologetic smile shone down on him. “I’m afraid so.”
If Enzo thought this the best course, Fiore could do worse than go along with it. “All right.”
Enzo clasped his shoulder with an affection that suffused Fiore’s heart. Then, over Fiore’s head, his commanding tone bid the chirurgeon, “Continue.”
The second withdrawal felt no better than the first.
Dr Venier cleaned the two wounds with something that stung stronger than vinegar. Every daub of the soaked cloth felt like a dull echo of being stabbed. She replaced the withdrawn bandages—which felt worse than taking out the old ones, just in a different direction—and wrapped Fiore up in fresh linen, taking up needle and thread to sew it into place. Then, to his equal astonishment and relief, she told him he could at long last lie down.
Enzo let down the hem of the nightgown and laid him back against the pillows. For a moment a queer terror seized Fiore that Enzo would let go altogether and leave him there alone, but Enzo’s arm remained around his shoulders even after he’d settled, and Enzo himself reclined beside him, his other hand now free to continue smoothing back his curls from his brow.
Instinct bid Fiore kick when Dr Venier laid her hands upon the wrappings around his ankles, but he restrained himself. When she’d done with those, she moved on to his wrists.
Enzo drew in a breath as Dr Venier began unwrapping Fiore’s hand. As if he meant, once again, to tell Fiore not to look. Fiore waited to hear him say it. He would ignore it all the same.
But Enzo merely let it out again in a soft sigh and twined his fingers through Fiore’s hair.
Fiore fixed his gaze on his hand. This was what he’d dreaded most amidst all the horrors. He hadn’t yet truly seen, by the full light of day, what remained after his captors had mangled him.
The first layer of linen remained white. Then a pale yellow stain. Then a rusty orange. Then a crimson blot turned black around the edge. And then there was no more linen at all, but instead a swollen scarlet lump where the chirurgeons had stitched skin up over the remaining knuckle-bone, crusted over with gore. He had but a glimpse before his guts twisted and he turned his face away to bury it in Enzo’s collar.
“Easy,” Enzo murmured above him, tucking his head under his bristled chin. “It’s all right. She’s almost done.”
Fiore’s whole arm trembled as the stinging liquid ran over the wound. It fell limp in Dr Venier’s grasp as she cleaned and re-wrapped it. Then she set it down in his lap and, judging by the muffled clinking sound off to the side, returned to her bag.
“All done, Signor Fiore,” she said as she went. “You’re doing very well. Just a quick dose of anodyne and then you may rest.”
Which was all the warning he received before Enzo’s hand laid gently over his forearm and something pricked the crook of it. The cold fluid forced its way into his veins. His hiss of pain dissolved as his mind floated aloft and didn’t seem to know or care how to come back down. Dr Venier’s footsteps echoed away. The thud of the door falling shut sounded as if it reached his ear through leagues of seawater.
And finally, blissfully, he and his Enzo were alone again.
All remained quiet at first. Just the steady rise and fall of Enzo’s chest and faint rustling of his fingertips through Fiore’s hair. Then Fiore, with substantial effort, raised his head and tilted it back to look Enzo in the eye.
Enzo wore no hint of disgust or irritation, but rather met his gaze with a wan yet sincere smile, despite the shadows beneath his eyes. Only when the silent stare between them drew out through several moments did his brow furrow, but his tone remained light as he asked, “Zecchino for your thoughts?”
Fiore felt like he had both too few and too many to give voice. He opened his mouth regardless. “Any sash tied ‘round my waist would turn red now.”
Enzo’s smile faded. Evidently it wasn’t as funny as Fiore had thought. Or perhaps it was only the anodyne skewing his perspective.
Fiore tried again to smile. His face didn’t hurt anymore, thanks to the anodyne, but the distant echo of discomfort ran down his cheek regardless. The chirurgeon hadn’t touched it whilst she tended all his other wounds. Did it have bandages? He raised his good hand to check.
Enzo—ever so gently, else Fiore would never have abided it—caught his forearm against his palm. “Don’t touch; it’s still healing.”
Which raised more questions than it answered. Fiore forced his muddled mind to form distinct words in sequence. “May I have a mirror?”
Enzo hesitated.
