Chapter 4 #2
“This wasn’t a ruse to get into your arms,” I mutter, embarrassed by my own thoughts and admitting that the blows to my head have muddled my mind a bit.
“No ruses ever needed, love.” She looks down at me. Before I can object to her calling me that, she adds, “I have called only one person ‘love,’ Gabrielle. One. In all my life.”
Later I can blame the wave of weakened knees on my blood loss or head injury, but in the moment, I will admit to myself that I avoid her because of this very reaction, this weakness that steals over me when she smiles at me as if I am the only woman in the world.
Aloud I admit nothing. Instead, I say, “I would appreciate your assistance in taking the saddle.”
She sighs, expression falling. “I will see you safely home unless you want to return with me to—”
“I cannot intrude on your family when His Grace is ill.” I don’t say “dying,” although we both know that’s what I mean.
She nods at me. “Of course.”
“Can you . . .” I feel awkward asking. “Stand still a moment.”
She does, and I pull out my bag of salt and pour it on her arm where I gripped her, then on my skirt and my hands. Hating the thought of the pain about to flood me, I whisper, “I need you to hold me steady a moment.”
I don’t warn her why. I let her think I am simply dizzy, and then I take a liberal handful of salt in my palm. Bracing for the pain, I bow my head and reach back to release the granules over my wound.
The stinging makes my knees weaken and my stomach rebel.
“What are you doing?” Isabeau holds on to me as I bite back a sound.
“Contaminants,” I manage to say in a wavering voice. “I’d rather pain than . . .” I shrug. I’m not going to start listing the horrors I fear. “I didn’t think you’d do it for me.”
To that, she says nothing.
The ride home is slower than I’d like, but we still must pause so I can vomit twice.
On the first occasion, I realize that I have not checked whether the steel box is still in the satchel.
I feel inside my bag, exhaling a sigh of relief when my hand brushes the cold metal.
On the second stop to purge my innards, I realize that I have surely accidentally done the work of removing Isabeau’s romantic interest. Seeing me injured, bleeding, and vomiting seems to be the rare thing that stills her tongue.
My head injury is more severe than either of us mentions, but I do notice her worried looks each time we pause, so I endeavor to not stop a third time. In truth, I’m not sure if I am successful by my efforts or if I simply have nothing left in my body to expel. I feel dismal.
We reach the edge of the village, and I slide off the horse into a semistanding position.
Both my head and arm thump in pain, and the myriad aches from my fall are steadily announcing their presence.
The quiet clatter of my empty sample vials sounds loud to me, and I wonder if I ought to have taken more samples from my attack site.
Thinking to do so was not on my mind. All I have is the faery blood, but I suppose clarity is different when you are the victim.
Isabeau still has not remarked on the clattering of my overstuffed pockets.
For that, I am grateful. I cannot fathom telling her that my pockets carry the empty vials, but in my satchel I have also the vitreous humor from a dead man’s eye or the skin from his death blow—both of which I collected.
I cannot imagine telling her that I worry that the killer is something unknown to our world.
“Please take care in the forest,” is all I say.
“I can see you to the physician and—”
“I am capable.” I don’t want to admit that I am tempted by her arms, that I feel safer at her side, that I want to forget my pain and duty at the thought of tasting her lips again. “I need to go alone, Isabeau. I cannot remove my dress with you there.”
Her expression hardens, and I hear the raw edge of her temper as she bites off, “Afraid I’d prove as lecherous as gossips say?” Her gaze sears me as she adds, “Even as injured as you are? You think so little of me?”
“No.” I reach out and take her hand only long enough to squeeze it as I admit, “Not at all. I would rather you remember the way I look in your memory, not covered in blood and filth. I am allowed a little vanity, am I not?”
“You are stunning, love. Always.” Her voice is so sincere, so fervent, that I hate every woman she’s romanced or seduced. All of them. I lock away this memory because even in my pain, seeing her look at me and say such things is the single most romantic moment of my last decade.
I stand under the midday sun, covered in ash and blood, clad in tatters, and she looks at me as if I am something beautiful. It breaks my heart. I thought I was as shattered as I could be by her words and deeds, yet here we stand.
“Please?” I gesture to a building across the town square. No sign hangs in front of it, but the residents are physicians all trained in Regina Centrum. My family pays for whatever lessons they want, and in return, they open the door to us at any hour.
Isabeau bows to me and watches me hobble to the door.
I knock three times on a door that only opens for my family. They do see other patients, as needs require, but one physician is always ready at the side door if a Fleuriste is injured. Guilt sometimes washes over me for that, but there are benefits to offset the sacrifice of being the Hunter.
As the door opens, a young woman sees me and calls for the others. A child runs out and takes the horse, so it can be stabled at the Goose.
“My satchel,” I say.
The boy carries it to the house as I watch him. All I have to find clues about the creature my father must hunt is inside that bag. I cannot leave it outside.
I glance back to see Isabeau watching me, but then I am ushered into the warm house.
As the door closes, I feel as if my willpower fades.
No longer feigning strength, I let Maria—the matron of the house—direct me onto a steel bed that is covered in a stack of dark sheets.
The steel will help kill any faery toxins on my body, and the sheet is a gesture of comfort.
Steel beds are cold things, inflexible and icy.