Sweet
It had been five days since Elias had awoken in that cursed room.
His entire body screamed, skin itching with pus and infection. The fever was taking him, and as he sat on his horse’s back plodding forever forward, he dreamed.
He was dancing with Lyla, the prettiest girl in the village, swinging her round and round to gaze at the arch of her throat as she laughed.
Then he dreamed he was lying on a pile of unbaked bread dough as soft as the swell of flesh.
Then that he was walking through the meadow, dragging his fingertips across flowers’ faces.
He swam in and out of consciousness to adjust his horse on the road.
Henry’s words guided him safely.
When Elias finally arrived, the hospital was different than the ones his family had taken him to in a much bigger city. It looked more like a large house or a modest church—just as Henry had described.
Elias led his exhausted beast through their gate, loping the reins over a fence post, then staggered to the front door.
He swallowed hard as blackness swam before his eyes. Then he clenched his fist to keep from fainting and pounded on the door.
It opened and an old man stood before him.
“Please,” Elias said immediately, “Grandfather, I am in need of aid.”
The old man tilted his head to the side and blinked. His eyes did not focus; they roved over him aimlessly. He reached out and drew his hand toward Elias’s face.
The instant he felt the bandages touch his palm; he snatched his hand back.
“We do not care for lepers here.”* His voice was deep, deeper than any Elias had heard before. He started to close the door.
“I am not a leper,” Elias cried desperately. “I have been cut. A man who sought to do me ill has desecrated me with a blade, and I have not the tools to stay clean. The fevers . . . I have come a long way. I am not a leper.”
“Your voice is rough as lepers’ voices become rough,” the old man said, his blind eyes shifting from side to side. “You smell of strange blood.”
“He scarred my throat to prevent the telling of it.” Elias begged, “Please, I swear before God, I am not a leper. But if you would not permit me to rest, please allow me spirits for cleansing, new bandages, and scissors so I might remove these stitches. I have the coin for it. Please.”
The old man’s brow furrowed. He reached forward again and this time dragged his fingers over Elias’s face, feeling the topography of his skin.
“Stitches . . . ,” he whispered. “Precise. Was your butcher a surgeon?”
Elias could not take this. He burst into tears, leaning against the doorframe.
“I do not know. I never touched him; I do not know why I was chosen.”
The old man tugged Elias inside, hushing him gently.
The inside of the hospital looked more like a house than the outside.
The front room was large with many places to sit but otherwise was indistinguishable from Elias’s home.
A large hearth with water continuously steeping, dry food stores hung from the ceiling, the warmth of lantern and candle, a large welcoming table for eating.
The old man took him to the back of the house, where there were many rooms. Passing by, Elias could see that at least one of them was a regular bedroom filled with girl’s things.
Where he stopped, there were four beds and a large brass bathing tub.
“It is past the coughing season,” the old man explained. “We do not often get visitors who stay. Those who did have passed or returned home.”
Elias was struggling to stand and could not answer with more than a shuddering breath.
The old man helped him undress. Elias felt a thrum of fear, recalling Jaan’s warning and the villagers’ terror, but the old man did not react in any way to him. Truly blind, then.
Elias held his hand as the old man led him to the bath.
Elias sat at the bottom and leaned his head back as the old man went to fetch water.
He wished he could help him, but weak as he was, he could not.
He flinched as winter-cold water splashed against his skin, ten buckets to fill halfway.
Then two pots of boiling water until the chill was chased from it.
The old man returned with a bottle of clear spirits and tipped it into the water as well. He sprinkled pine needles on the surface. Elias teared up again at the scent, thinking of home.
“What is your name?” the old man asked.
“Elias, Margarite’s son.”
The old man smiled, wrinkles radiating from the corners of his eyes. “A village boy, then. They always mention their mothers. . . . I am De Lacey.”
Elias sniffled. “I am from near Gerolfing.”
De Lacey nodded and began to wash Elias’s back with a soft cloth, pausing every time Elias flinched.
“Cleansed of blood, you smell . . . sweet,” he commented.
“I have sugar sickness. I must eat only meat and pine tea if I can manage it, and drink much clean water,” Elias whispered.
De Lacey made an aggravated sound, then stood and left him. Elias leaned against the side of the tub and cried quietly. His head hurt so much. It had for days. Now that his skin was beginning to stop screaming at him, he was forced to focus on his head more than ever.
De Lacey returned with pine tea and goose meat.
“I see you’re going to be expensive,” he grumbled.
“I am sorry.” Elias breathed shakily. He took a small bite of the goose, pacing himself even though he wanted to wolf it down.
De Lacey bathed him in his entirety like no one had since Elias was very young. Swiped the cloth even between his toes and rubbed his fingernails. It hurt like the good kind of pain, and Elias cried in small bouts the whole way through.
Then De Lacey made Elias lie down and set upon cutting his stitches.
“It feels more terrible than it is,” he remarked. “Shallow and prone to infection, yes. Deep, no. Perhaps this person intended this as a punishment?”
“I do not know,” Elias said. His tears had irritated the cuts on his face and it was stinging. He took another sip of pine tea, then chewed a few of the needles.
“They are all on the front of you, so you may lie on your back,” De Lacey said firmly. “Your face feels fair. Perhaps he was jealous. Did you court a girl he desired?”
Elias wanted to laugh—his chest even jolted in amusement—but the joy didn’t reach his face.
“No. There is no girl between us.” He sighed.
De Lacey finished removing the bits of string Victor had put inside him, then moved to trim the remaining strands of Elias’s hair until his head was shorn all the way around. Then he rubbed Elias all over with ointment that burned in a healing way and settled clean sheets about him.
“Thank you for this gift,” Elias said. He could feel himself slipping into sleep.
De Lacey chuckled. “Village boys. Always so formal. When you wake, everyone should be back from town, and you can meet the family.”
Elias was fading, but he roused himself to reach out and murmur:
“It is good that you are not here alone.”