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But he kept his gaze locked on those masked eyes.
“They have it in hand,” Enzo said. “They’ve cut it free. They’re withdrawing it now.”
The sensation of the wretched thing slipping out through a hole that shouldn’t have existed thrust Fiore’s gorge into his throat alongside his heart. He gagged against the belt, but kept it down. Something dropped into the porcelain basin with a hollow clink.
“It is out,” said Enzo. “Now they will clean the wound, and then they will sew it shut. Soon they’ll be done.”
A bottle uncorked with a slick popping sound. The scent of vinegar filled the room as the chirurgeon poured it into the wound he’d made. It stung, which was at least a novel sort of pain beyond everything else Fiore had endured that day.
The chirurgeon mopped up the mess with clean linen. Then, after more clinking from their bag, a bizarre hissing noise arose and a burning mist struck Fiore’s ruined flesh. A high-pitched keen escaped him.
Enzo stroked his cheek. “They’re taking up needle and thread.”
The piercing of his flesh felt more insult than injury. The drawing of the thread through it had the same horrible sliding sensation as the removal of the infection’s source. Fiore didn’t have anything left within him to protest against it. His throat, raw from screaming, now held only ragged gasps. His right hand had fisted in the bedclothes and tangled to the wrist. His left hand clenched around Enzo’s fingers hard enough to hurt his own knuckles.
Yet Enzo did not flinch. “The knots are tied off. The threads are cut. It is over.”
Fiore didn’t dare hope far enough to believe him.
Enzo smoothed back the sweat-soaked locks plastered to Fiore’s feverish brow. The tenderness of his touch made Fiore want to cry. His cheeks were already wet, and cold, as if from rain. Rain seemed to cover all his flesh in a cold damp.
“Will you take something for the pain now?” Enzo asked, his voice low and pleading.
Against his better judgment, Fiore nodded.
Enzo reached for the belt. With an effort, Fiore unclenched his jaw. A shameful whimper escaped him. He saw light through the leather where his teeth had torn it. Enzo merely tossed it aside.
“Morphine, I think,” said the chirurgeon. “It’s too much for laudanum. And too late for chloroform.”
Enzo hesitated and turned to Fiore. “Would you prefer something in drink or in a needle?”
Fiore recalled all too well the taste of poppies in wine. “Needle.”
“Told you,” said the chirurgeon.
Enzo rolled his eyes into a glare at the chirurgeon. They didn’t seem to notice.
Something pricked the inside of Fiore’s elbow. His pained whimper became a long, low sigh as the cold fluid spilled into his veins and a floating relief washed over him.
Enzo stroked his hair with a soft and gentle hand. “Better?”
Fiore nodded more slowly than he intended.
A wan smile reached Enzo’s eyes.
~
CHAPTER SIX
Against all odds, Fiore awoke feeling far better than he had immediately prior to the chirurgy.
He didn’t feel well by any means, but the churning nausea had gone, and the throbbing agony throughout his entrails had reduced to a single particular point just above his right hip—and even this seemed dulled in comparison.
It also helped a great deal that he opened his eyes and turned his head to find Enzo seated at his bedside.
The instant their gazes met, the dark eyes beneath the bauta mask brightened in a soft and gentle smile. A hand arose to caress his cheek.
“Good morning,” Enzo murmured. “How d’you feel?”
