18
CECILY
Finn was gone when she woke. For a moment she lay still, listening for his breathing in the dark corner of the shed. She heard only the wind battering the boards and a soft drip somewhere near the roofline.
Before he left, he had bent toward her sleeping face and kissed her gently on the cheek. Or had she dreamed it? She put a hand to her cheek. She wanted to believe it had happened.
She opened her eyes and stared at the slanted ceiling.
The pine needles Finn had spread beneath her crackled when she shifted.
Then pain drove up her forearm like a spike, sudden enough to make her dizzy.
Her arm throbbed in time with her heartbeat.
The skin around the wound felt stretched too tight.
She flexed her fingers, but the pain made her stop.
Finn had left food. A heel of bread wrapped in cloth, and a strip of dried meat, tough as leather. Beside it sat a small wooden cup with a little water left in the bottom, glazed with ice.
Cecily sat up slowly. The sling held her arm against her chest. The cloth rubbed the swollen skin and made her wince. She adjusted the knot with her good hand, more carefully this time.
The knife lay beside her, where Finn had placed it.
There was snow outside, thin patches in the shade of the trees. She went to the doorway and crouched, scooping a handful into her mouth. It helped take the edge off her thirst.
When she straightened, the world swayed slightly. She steadied herself with her good hand against the doorframe and waited until the unsteadiness passed.
She listened: a branch crack, the rustle of something small in the undergrowth, wind moving through the bare tree branches.
The sun was high by the time she stood, casting thin strips of light through the walls. She took a few steps, testing her legs, and stirred the dead embers of the morning’s fire. Her legs felt unsteady, and her arm throbbed with each movement.
She went to the doorway and looked out. The shed sat at the edge of an old field, half reclaimed by brush.. From where she stood, she could see patches of brown grass and brambles tangled low to the ground.
If she stayed inside and did nothing, she would be safe, or at least safer. If she went out, she might find food.
She picked up the knife and slid it into the fold of her dress at her waist, where her hand could reach it quickly. It felt awkward, but it made her breathe a little easier.
“I’ll be quick,” she said aloud, as if Finn could hear her.
She wrapped the thin blanket Finn had purchased around her shoulders and stepped out into the cold. The air burned her cheeks. She moved slowly along the edge of the field, keeping the shed behind her and to the right, always in sight.
She remembered what Finn had done the day before, turning over logs, scraping away soil. She tried the same, but it was harder with one arm. She knelt, braced herself with her good hand, and pried at a fallen branch. It rolled over, revealing nothing but damp ground.
She moved on, trying another spot. Her knees sank into the wet grass. The cold seeped through her dress. When she leaned forward, pain flared in her arm and made her grit her teeth.
Just a little longer, she thought, as if speaking to Finn. I’ll be careful. The thought helped steady her hands.
She found a handful of nuts under leaves near the base of a tree, small and damp but edible. She gathered them with her good hand. It felt like a victory. Then she stood and turned back toward the shed.
That was when she saw the man.
He was not close at first. He stood near the far side of the field, where the brush thickened. He swayed slightly, as if the ground beneath him were unsteady. She might have missed him if he hadn’t moved.
Cecily froze.
He was tall and thin, wrapped in a tattered cloak that hung off one shoulder. His hair was matted, and his beard was untrimmed. When the wind shifted, the smell reached her, sour ale and old sweat.
He looked at her and smiled.
“Ho there,” he called, his words thick and raspy.
Cecily did not answer. She took one step back, then another, keeping her face calm though her pulse had risen into her throat.
The man started walking toward her. Not fast. He swayed slightly on unsteady legs.
Cecily turned and began moving toward the shed, forcing herself not to run. Her boots sank in the wet ground. Her injured arm bounced against her chest, and pain shot through her each time.
Behind her, the man laughed.
“Aye, go on,” he said. “Pretty little thing out here alone. Thought I was seein’ a angel at first.”
Cecily kept going.
The shed door seemed suddenly far away.
“Are ye lost?” he called. “Run off from yer man, have ye? Or maybe yer pa, from the looks of ye.”
She reached the doorway and stepped inside, pulling the door toward her with her good hand. It scraped along the ground.
The man was already too near. He shoved at the door before she could close it and stumbled inside, catching himself against the wall. Standing in the doorway, he grinned.
Cecily backed away until the boards pressed against her spine.
“Get out,” she said.
His gaze dropped to the sling, then traveled slowly back to her face.
“Got yerself injured, have ye?” he said. “Ain’t that a shame.”
He took another step. The smell of him filled the shed.
Cecily’s hand went to the knife.
“Leave,” she said again, her voice rising. “Now.”
He chuckled. “Pretty little girl. Young thing.”
She drew the knife and held it between them.
The man squinted at it, then laughed again, softer this time. “Lookey that,” he said. “A little lady with a blade.”
“Back away,” she said.
He swayed, then lunged for her.
Pain tore through her injured arm as he caught her wrist. She screamed. The knife wavered. Her grip loosened. The blade fell to the floor.
Cecily gasped and struck his cheek with her free hand. It was weak, but it made his head snap to the side.
His expression changed.
He grabbed her other arm and shoved her back against the wall. His hand slid up to her shoulder, pinning her there. His breath was hot and sour against her cheek.
Cecily turned her face away, her throat constricted. She tried to lift her knee, but he shifted his weight and blocked her.
“Whus matter with ye, lass?” he said, slurring his words.
From outside came the scrape of something dragged over frozen ground. Then running.
Finn.
The vagrant tightened his grip.
Finn’s voice cut through the open door. “Get your hands off her.”
The man turned his head, blinking, as if he were trying to bring his eyes into focus.
Finn stepped into view, hauling something behind him, an uneven wooden trolley bound with rope. Tied to it was the iron-and-wood bulk of the time machine, mud-streaked and battered. Finn’s face was red with the strain, and his breath came hard through his teeth.
He let go of the trolley handle and stepped forward.
“I said,” he repeated, his voice low, “get your hands off her.”
The vagrant laughed, sloppy and defiant. “Found her first. She be mine.”
Finn’s eyes flicked to Cecily’s face, to the man’s grip on her. Her eyes were round.
“Last chance,” Finn said.
The man spat on the floor.
Finn moved. He lunged, snatched the knife from the floor, and came up in one motion. The blade flashed in the pale winter light.
The vagrant shouted and scrambled back into the snow, but then turned and charged, a wild cry tearing from his throat.
Finn met him, stumbling back under the man’s weight.
There was no room for skill, only a desperate shove, the knife held between them.
The man’s cry choked off as his own momentum drove the blade deep.
Finn shoved him away, and Cecily saw blood on Finn’s hands.
The vagrant staggered, clutching his chest, then he fell to his knees and tipped sideways into the dirt, his eyes staring.
Panting, Finn turned to Cecily at once.
“Did he hurt you?”
She shook her head. She pressed her lips together and could not make herself speak.
Finn crouched in front of her. “It’s me,” he said. “It’s Finn.”
Her knees gave way. She slid down the wall and pressed her hand over her mouth, fighting for breath.
“Cecily,” Finn said, gently easing her down onto the floor and covering her with the blanket. She looked up at him with wide eyes. Her breathing was steadying. “Rest a moment,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
She clutched at his arm. “No. Don’t leave me.”
“I have to do something with the… the body. I won’t be long.”
She sank back and nodded.
Finn dragged the body out into the biting cold. He returned minutes later, his face pale, his hands streaked with dirt and melting snow. He didn’t look at Cecily as he spoke.
“I covered him,” he said, his voice rough. “He’s hidden for now.”
The throbbing pain in Cecily’s arm was making her feel weak. She watched as Finn lit a candle. The small flame steadied the space, pushing back the dark.
“Let me see your arm,” he said.
Cecily eased it free of the sling. The scuffle with the man had caused the wound to reopen, and it oozed blood and purulence. The skin was red and swollen. Heat radiated from it.
Finn stared, then looked up at her. He ran his hand over her forehead. Despite the chill in the air, she was sweating.
Finn dressed her wound in silence. His hands were gentle. He did not look at her face.
“Tomorrow, I’ll take you to a physician,” he said.
She nodded. She wanted to thank him. She wanted to say something about what he had done. But the words wouldn’t come, and after a while she stopped trying to find them.
The candle burned low between them. Outside, the wind howled through the trees. Neither of them spoke again that night.