32
FINN
By midday, Finn’s hands were shaking. He had eaten only wild garlic and water since leaving the cave, and the cracked rib stabbed him with every breath.
Through the trees he saw a tilled field, and beyond it, a cottage with smoke rising from the chimney, one of his family’s tenants, almost certainly. People meant food. Even a crust of bread would be better than foraging in the woods. Finn changed direction and headed toward the field.
The sun warmed his face. He drew a breath of rich, dark earth, and for a moment, the world felt steady.
Then his vision warped at the edges, the birdsong overhead turning sharp and distant.
The distant cottage wavered. He pressed a hand to his side as pain flared, hot and insistent, and felt something shift beneath his fingers.
He didn’t even feel himself fall, just the dirt against his face and the air gone from his lungs. Pain tore through his chest. He tried to push himself up, but his arms wouldn’t hold him.
Cecily.
∞∞∞
He heard young voices, high pitched and excited.
“Mama! Mama! There’s a man!”
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t know. Should we poke him?”
“Don’t poke him, that’s rude.”
“But how do we know if he’s dead?”
Finn tried to speak, to tell them he wasn’t dead, but nothing came out.
Small feet running. Fading away. Then silence.
He lay there, his cheek pressed against the cool earth, and waited.
More footsteps. Heavier. Slower.
He heard a woman’s voice, wary. “Step back, children. Don’t touch him.”
Something firm prodded his shoulder. He managed a sound, half groan, half breath.
“He’s alive.” The woman said. “Barely.”
Finn felt her crouch beside him, her hands checking him over. She found the cracked rib, and he flinched.
“Can ye stand?” she asked.
He tried. He braced his arms beneath him, pushed, and collapsed again.
The woman was silent for a long moment. He felt the weight of her gaze, the pause that would decide whether he lived or died on this patch of earth. A stranger was a risk; he knew she was weighing that risk.
“Alright,” she said finally. “But if ye try anything, I’ll crack yer skull with the fire poker.”
Her hands gripped under his arms. She was stronger than she looked. Between her pulling and the children hauling him by his legs, they got him moving. He heard the children’s voices again, peppering their mother with questions.
“Where we takin’ him, Mama?”
“If he dies, can we bury him in the garden?”
“Hush, all of ye,” the woman snapped. “Help me get him inside.”
A doorway swam into view. Warmth. The scent of baking bread. Then the hard ground gave way to something soft as he was lowered onto a bed. A blanket settled over him, and he heard the crackle of a fire.
“Can ye hear me?” the woman asked.
He opened his eyes. She was young, maybe late twenties, with dark hair pulled back and covered with a cloth. Her face was tired but not hard.
“What’s yer name?” she asked.
“Finn.” His voice was like gravel.
“Finn. I’m Alys. Those are my young’uns ye scared half to death.” She paused. “Ye’re lucky they found ye. Another day and ye may have died out there.”
He tried to thank her, but the words wouldn’t come.
“Rest now,” Alys said. “We’ll figure out what to do with ye when ye wake fully.”
Finn’s eyes closed. The pain in his ribs was dulling to something almost bearable. The warmth drew him down, and for once he didn’t fight it.
∞∞∞
He woke to the smell of pottage simmering. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. The ceiling above him was low, with dark beams spanning rough plaster. A fire crackled somewhere nearby. Children’s voices drifted from outside, arguing about something.
He looked down. His chest was bound tightly in clean linen. Someone had wiped the grime from his face and arms and pulled a rough but clean shirt over his head.
The door opened, and the woman stepped inside, carrying a wooden bowl. She stopped when she saw him sitting up, then continued forward without comment.
“Ye’re awake,” Alys said. “Good. Drink this.”
She set the bowl on the small table beside the bed and crossed her arms, studying him.
Finn stared at the bowl. Steam rose from whatever was inside. Broth, by the smell of it.
“How long have I been here?” he asked. His voice came out hoarse.
Alys moved to the fire, stirring something in a pot. “Four days. Maybe five. Ye’ve been in and out of yer head most of it.”
Four days. He thought of where he should be by now, not four days behind. He gripped the edge of the bed, the rough wood digging into his palms.
“I have to go,” he rasped, forcing his legs over the side. He pushed himself up, but the floor tilted violently, and his knees gave way. Alys caught him before he hit the ground, her grip firm.
“Sit down,” she said. Her voice was stern.
She pushed him back onto the bed. Finn slumped against the wall, breathing hard, the sharp pain in his side stealing all his strength.
“Ye’re not goin’ anywhere,” she said. “Ye need rest and food. Maybe a fortnight, maybe more. Then we’ll see.”
Two weeks.
Finn pressed his hands to his face. He didn’t have two weeks. The wedding—when was it? How much time had he already lost?
Alys picked up the bowl and thrust it at him. “Drink that. All of it.”
Finn took the bowl. The broth was thin, but it was hot and salted. He drank it greedily.
“Where am I?” Finn asked.
“My cottage. On the Veyron estate.” She glanced at him. “Ye’re a tenant, then? Or just passin’ through?”
“Passing through,” Finn said.
“From the wars?”
He nodded.
“Ye have the look of it. My husband died in Scotland.” She looked away a moment. “Two years now.”
The door burst open and the children tumbled inside, their voices loud and overlapping. They stopped when they saw Finn, falling silent mid-argument.
“This is Finn,” Alys told them. “He’ll be stayin’ with us a bit while he heals. Finn, these are mine. Wat, Emma, and Hugh.”
The oldest boy, Wat, stepped forward cautiously. “Are ye a soldier?”
“I was,” Finn said.
“Did ye know my papa? His name were Edgar.”
“Course he didn’t,” said Alys. “There’d be too many soldiers for him to know yer pa.”
“Did ye kill anyone?” This question came from Emma, her eyes bright with curiosity.
“Emma,” Alys said sharply.
“It’s alright,” Finn said. He looked at the girl. “I tried not to.”
Hugh, the youngest, was still staring. “Are ye goin’ to die?”
“Hugh!” Alys set down her spoon.
“It’s what Wat said,” Hugh protested. “He said the man in the field was goin’ to die and we shouldn’t touch him ’cause he might be cursed.”
“I’m not cursed,” Finn said gently. “And I’m not going to die.”
“How do ye know?” Hugh asked.
“Because your mother is here.” Finn met Alys’s gaze. “And she is stubborn.”
Alys’s mouth twitched into something close to a smile. “Out, all of ye. Let the man rest.”
The children retreated slowly, still watching Finn over their shoulders. The door closed behind them, and their voices picked up again outside, arguing about something new.
Alys returned to the fire.
Finn set the empty bowl aside and lay back down, but his mind would not settle.
Four days lost. He closed his eyes, the children’s voices fading behind the roar of his own fear.
All he could see was Cecily: the way she tilted her chin to hide her tears, the stubborn set of her jaw at Master Nicholas’s house as she refused to let go of his hand.
The way she had always, always gotten back up.
She would not be broken by time. He had to believe that. As long as she was alive, he would not fail her. He would reach her in time.