Chapter 39
When my door creaks open later that week, I’m surprised to find that instead of Lars come to check on his patient, it’s the Nomad, looking even more mischievous than normal.
“Did I wake you?” he asks.
I shake my head, though I don’t sit up in bed.
I’m not keen on admitting that the reason I haven’t sat up in the hour since waking from my nap is because it hurts too badly to prop myself up on my arms. I can do it with my elbows, but it’s a strain and, to be frank, too much of a bother.
I’ve been in bed for two weeks, waiting on both my hands and wings to recover.
“What a shame,” he says. “I was desperately hoping to bother you.”
I hunch forward in a noiseless laugh.
He comes to my bedside holding what looks to be a solid silver tray, complete with an equally expensive teapot out of which comes a warm plume of steam.
I smell the hint of jasmine and rosemary, my mouth watering as I anticipate the warm liquid on my throat.
I’m not ill—not in that way—but there’s something about the gesture that reminds me of my mother back when I would fall sick, coughing my head off, or in bed with whatever disease I had contracted as a child.
He sets the tray on the bedside table. “May I?” he asks, extending his hands.
I nod, and he loops his arms beneath my armpits, dragging me up in bed to sit upright. Once I’m contentedly propped against the headboard, he pulls up a chair next to the bedside table and pours the steaming liquid into two teacups.
Look, I sign, motioning with my hand, though it wobbles and the sign is feeble.
The Nomad smiles softly. “Glad to see that the range of motion in your hands is returning.”
Me too, I sign.
“Does it still hurt?” he asks.
I nod, and he makes a noncommittal noise. He’s just gone back to pouring my tea when I make another sign with my hand.
Nomad.
My fingers linger in the position long enough that it’s not the pain that has me considering placing my hands back in my lap.
But then the Nomad’s eyes dart to my hands, and the tea he’s pouring sloshes over the side of the cup and onto his hand.
He yanks his hand back, making the spill worse and cracking the edge of the cup on the table, and makes a hissing sound as the tea sears his hand.
“Oh,” he says, looking a bit frazzled. My heart skips in my chest. “Well, I suppose I’ll be taking this one,” he says, looking almost bashful as he stares at the cracked teacup.
You hurt? I sign, noting the red mark on his hand.
“I didn’t come to check on the patient just to steal the pity,” he says with a wink, but I don’t miss the way he winces. He then goes to hand me the unchipped teacup, but then hesitates, glancing at my hands. “I didn’t think of this,” he says. “Have they been spoon-feeding you?”
I nod. I’m not easily embarrassed, but heat flushes my cheeks all the same.
“Well,” he chuckles nervously, “believe it or not, this wouldn’t be the first time.” When I give him a strange look, he adds, “That I’ve offered someone their tea, of course.”
He brings the teacup to my lips. “It’s hot,” he warns, and I blow on it softly, feeling the air bounce off the surface of the tea and back into my face. I can’t help noticing the way the Nomad watches the shape of my lips.
“When you signed my name earlier,” he asks, “was that simply because it’s one of the few signs you can make right now? Or were you about to say something?”
I stare at my fingers, concentrating on making the shapes. I want to—agh, I don’t know the sign for test— I want to try my wings.
He pauses, then tips the teacup again. The warm liquid touches my lips. It occurs to me that this would be a way to silence someone who spoke verbally.
“Is that right?” he asks. “And what does your oh-so-compassionate and concerned-for-your-health physician think of this idea?”
He likes it, I sign.
“Liar,” says the Nomad.
I grin.
“Don’t you think you’re a little beaten up for a flight test?” he asks.
I’m not— I pause, and the Nomad shows me the sign for beaten.
I’m not beaten up, I sign. I’m healed. Mended is the word I’m thinking, but healed will have to do.
I gesture with my chin toward my wings. Look, I sign.
Where my wings once fell into tattered pieces, they are now whole.
Sure, there are slivers of gold where the tears used to be, but the thread has melded nicely with the natural membrane.
It’s only been two weeks, and the wings appear close to healed.
Even if I have those golden scars forever, it’s still better than the alternative.
“May I?” the Nomad asks, reaching out his hand.
I nod before I can convince myself to say no, before I can remind myself why it’s a bad idea to let him touch my wings.
Though I’m reminded quickly enough. As soon as his skin touches membrane, I try to fight back a shudder and fail miserably.
The Nomad doesn’t mention it, but his lips tilt upward all the same.
When he runs his finger down the line of gold, a tingling warmth follows it all the way down.
“Does that hurt? Am I hurting you?” he asks.
The flesh is still tender, like touching a bruise lightly, but I shake my head. And it’s not entirely a lie.
“Stunning,” he says, breathless.
If I had the signs, I would ask him if he’s talking about me or Lars’s handiwork with the stitches. Or perhaps I wouldn’t. Perhaps I’m only thinking myself bolder because I don’t have the option to prove otherwise.
The Nomad swallows when he reaches the end of the line of stitches. When he looks at me, his eyes are burning into me.
“Fine. We’ll do a field test,” he says, scooting backward in his chair and making to leave.
But then he glances at the tea and realizes I can’t bring it to my mouth. Regret instantly swarms his face.
“I forgot. I can stay if…” he says.
I lift my hands, readying to tell him no.
Instead, I find my hands forming other words.
I do like tea.