Chapter 14 #2
Slowly. Each check of her pulse, same answer. Too fast. Still too fast. But the gray retreats. The paste is working. Thin as it is, stretched past what it should be, it's working.
Minute fifty-two. Her breathing shifts. The rigid muscles go slack under my hands. Her skin cools under my palm.
"There." The word shakes coming out. "She's okay."
The mother gathers Fenna into her arms. The child is crying—awake crying, hurting crying, but her eyes are open and she's reaching for her mother.
"Keep the wound clean." I push myself up, knees screaming, palms flat on the ground. "Don't let her scratch at it. I'll check it tomorrow."
"Thank you. I don't—thank you."
"Dara, can you show her how to change the dressing?"
"I know." Dara stands, touching the mother's elbow. "Come on. I'll show you."
They leave. The crowd parts, disperses. Normal sounds return—voices, footsteps, a cooking fire somewhere.
I should stand up. Walk away. Check on Fenna in an hour, wash the paste off my hands, figure out what comes next.
I don't move. Keer doesn't either.
Nugget appears at the edge of the clearing, sweater askew, pecking at something in the dirt.
The empty jar is on the ground between us. I pick it up, turn it over, tip it toward the light.
Nothing.
"That's it."
"How much is left?"
"What part of 'that's it' was unclear?" I hold up the jar. Tilt it. "None. Zero. I just used everything on that child. Everything I had left."
"Where does moonbright grow?" he asks.
"I know where it grows near my cottage."
"Half a day there. Half a day back—"
"A night on the trail." I wipe my forehead with my sleeve. "I know."
"That's not an option."
"Then help me find another one." I finally look at him.
His eye catches mine and—focus on the flowers.
"It grows in old-growth forest. Dense canopy, near water. Shaded ground. There has to be some in this territory—it's massive, and the ecology's right. I just don't know where."
"Someone might know. I'll ask today."
"Today. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Today." My voice is climbing again. Fantastic. "Because Fenna almost didn't have an hour, Keer. That wound needed twice the paste I gave her. If it had been any deeper, or if she'd bled longer—"
"I understand."
We stare at each other. His arm is close enough that the warmth bleeds through my sleeve. I look away first.
"I'll ask tonight," he says. "If anyone's seen moonbright growing in the territory, I'll know."
"And if they haven't?"
"Then we plan the longer trip."
Ugh. "We."
"The pack needs the paste. You can't go alone."
A night on a trail with him. Sleeping near—bedrolls. Separate bedrolls. Supply list. I need to think about the supply list. Water, bandages, jars, the drying rack is too big to carry so I'd need a frame, a smaller frame, and—
He's watching me. My neck is hot.
"I should check on Fenna." I get my feet under me.
"And wash up. And see if Bren's been changing his dressing because last time I checked he was using the same cloth days in a row, which is—actually that's a problem I can solve right now.
I can solve that problem. I'll be in the healing area. Come find me when you know."
"Melori."
I stop. Don't turn.
"The child is alive because of you."
"I know."
I walk.
The door of my dwelling is still warm from the afternoon sun when I push it open.
The basket from yesterday is on the floor.
I sorted them—blue pile, purple pile, yellow—but that's where I stopped.
Left them in neat little piles and went to stare at the ceiling and not sleep and make a chicken sweater and think about things I have no business thinking about.
They're brown now. Wilted, curling in on themselves, useless.
"Mel."
I spin. Kestria's in the doorway, still favoring her healing side, braids pulled back. She looks at my face and steps inside.
"I heard about Fenna. Dara told me."
"She's six."
"I know."
"The paste is gone, Kestria."
"I know that too." She sits on my sleeping pallet, the only real seating, and pats the space beside her. "Sit down."
"I can't sit down. I need to—wash my hands. Check on Bren. Inventory whatever's left of my supplies, which is nothing, it's all nothing—"
"Mel. Sit."
I sit. My legs fold under me and my back hits the wall and my hands are drying with paste in the creases of my knuckles.
"The paste was thin," I say. "Way too thin. It took fifty-two minutes for the fever to break. Usually it's forty. Thirty-five with enough paste."
"But it broke."
"This time. What about next time? What about when it's a deeper wound, or two wounds, or someone out on patrol who can't get back fast enough?" I sound like a teakettle with opinions. "I have nothing, Kestria. Empty jars. Dead flowers. I'm supposed to be the healer and I have nothing to heal with."
"So we find more."
"Where? I know one field. One. Near a cottage I can't go back to because there could be more very rude people watching it."
"You won't go alone."
"Everyone keeps saying that. You, Keer—"
"Keer said that?"
"It came up. Logistically." I scrub my face with my hands. Dirt and paste against my eyelids.
She's quiet for a beat too long. I know that quiet.
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to. He's asking around if anyone's seen moonbright in the territory."
"Good.”
"Good? Kestria. Do you really think ANYONE here has been paying attention to wildflowers while they were out hunting rabbits?”
"Some of them might have. Rhen's sharp. He notices terrain." She pauses. Watching me. "So. You talked to Keer."
"About paste."
"And?"
"And what?"
"Nothing." She's picking at a thread on my blanket. Not looking at me. Then looking at me. "Your face is purple."
"It's purple-green. Very colorful. Went looking for colorful flowers. Brought back a colorful face."
I hold up the empty jar.
"That's everything?"
"That's everything. And I can't make more without flowers. The processing takes time—harvesting, drying, grinding, mixing. Even if someone walks in the door right now with an armful of moonbright, I'm days from usable paste."
"What about the flowers in the basket?"
I glance at the floor. "Dead. I sorted them but I never started processing. I was—" I stop. "They're dead. Plus, they aren’t medicinal. They’re just pretty."
"Are all of them dead?"
I lean over and pick up the basket. Crumble a petal between my fingers. Brown dust. Nothing. But underneath—I push past the top layer, the wilted mess, and—
"The purple ones." I'm already pulling them out, hands working faster than my brain.
"Some of them. The ones at the bottom of the pile, they were compressed, less air exposure.
These might—" The petal between my fingers.
Pale purple edging dark. My breath catches.
"These are moonbright. I was grabbing everything purple in that field and I picked actual moonbright without—Kestria, hand me that cloth. "
She passes it over. I spread the surviving petals out—seven, maybe eight intact moonbright petals. A handful of blue fragments that aren't, but the purple ones are.
"Is that enough?"
"For a full jar? No. Not even close." I arrange them carefully, already calculating drying times and ratios. "Maybe a quarter jar." I sit back. "Better than nothing. Barely."
"But better."
I'm already planning the processing. Need the mortar. Need to check the wax seals. Need drying time, so tomorrow at the earliest, and even then—"This buys me one treatment. One. And the next attack could be tomorrow."
"Then we find the rest tomorrow."
"If Keer hears anything."
She reaches over and takes my hand. Squeezes. Her grip is warm and steady. "Fenna's alive, Mel. You did that on a third of a jar."
"With zero margin."
"Still breathing, though. Fenna. Because of you. So stop acting like you failed when you're literally covered in the stuff that saved her."
I look at the petals spread across the cloth. Purple and blue against gray fabric.
"I need to process these." I pull my hand free. Hands need to be moving. "Before they dry out any further. And I need to check on Fenna. And yell at Bren about his dressing. And—"
"And you need to eat."
"I ate."
"When?"
"There was bread."
"When, Mel?"
"This morning. Before dawn. I think."
"Ugh, Mel!" She stands, pulling a face when her side protests. "I'll bring you food. You process the petals."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm bringing you food. You're going to eat it. This is not a negotiation." She points at the petals. "Save those. I'll be back."
She's gone, and I'm alone with a handful of purple petals and an empty shelf and Nugget waddling through the door in her lopsided sweater, trailing dirt from the garden plot.
"Nice of you to show up," I tell her.
She ignores me. Waddles two steps. Heaves up the rock she ate this morning and keeps walking.
I stare at the rock.
"Cool."