Chapter 7 #2
Thornwick on her knees before him sent a dangerous amount of blood to other parts of his body. Although, for the sake of his
hand, that was likely for the best.
“Hand, please.”
“Princess, I—”
“Marigold.” She held out her hand. “Please . . . let me help you.”
Reluctantly, he lowered his hand. As she peeled the soiled linen away, she raised her russet eyebrows. He kept his eyes trained on her. He was no longer worried about fainting, but vomit was still a concern. He wasn’t sure which was the greater indignity.
“Is it bad?” he asked.
“I’ve seen worse.”
When had she seen worse?
“The bleeding’s stopped.” She withdrew pincers from the roll, then held his hand firmly. “For anything that hurts, I’m sorry.
For anything that heals, you’re welcome. I’ll try not to dig too much as I remove the splinters.”
“Have at it.” His voice was braver than he felt.
With great precision, she ferreted out bits of wood. As she worked, a gaggle of honking geese flew overhead. By the time he’d
turned his direction to them, then back to Marigold’s hair, she’d set her pincers on the linen.
“These next parts won’t be as pleasant,” she said. “I need to clean it with vinegar, and you’ll need a few stitches.”
He enjoyed her hand cupping his far too much. “No stitches.”
“Jask, they’ll help it close and heal properly.” She slid her warm and steady hand up his forearm, then squeezed. “I promise
it’ll be quick.”
It better be, or he’d have to fling himself into Coldpress Lake to cool his blood.
“Do it,” he said.
Marigold nodded, then uncapped the vinegar. “First, I’ll clean the wound. This will sting. Badly. But it discourages corruption.”
He’d survived this long. He refused to let a festering wound take him down.
With great care, she poured a thin stream of sharp-smelling vinegar into the wound. No, that couldn’t be vinegar—she must have placed stinging fire ants on his flesh. He hissed, but his discipline kicked in and he held still.
“Well done, Jask.” She squeezed his forearm. “I’m sure that was terrible. Also, here.”
He took the strip of leather she offered him. “What’s this for?”
“The pain. You bite on it.”
As though this would withstand an orc’s bite.
He tossed it back to her roll. “I’ll be fine.”
“Your choice.” From the surgeon’s roll, she took up a long, curved needle, then guided a shimmering thread through its eye.
“You’re lucky I visited the seamstress recently. My intuition told me I might need silk thread for my kit.”
“You’re clairvoyant as well, then.”
“No.” She clipped the end of the thread. “I’m a woman who prepares.”
“And a princess.”
“Princesses aren’t women?” The needle gleamed in the golden morning light as she wiped it with a linen soaked in vinegar.
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who put princesses on pedestals, Jask. Pedestals are as much a prison as Dreadmoor.”
“Princesses aren’t surgeons.”
“Do you know all princesses?” She poured vinegar onto her hands, then dried them on clean linen. “But I wouldn’t call myself a surgeon. I dabble.”
“Enough to do this capably, I hope?”
“I excel at everything to which I put my mind. Like palmistry.” She turned his hand slightly to get a better angle on the
gash. “The wound bisects your heart line, which is deep and well-defined. That would indicate a deep, true love. Have you
found her yet, Jask?”
That question hurt more than the nail had.
Marigold looked up at him. “You don’t need to answer. I’m just making conversation.”
His voice was low. “I did, but I lost her.”
Marigold’s features softened as she maintained eye contact. “I’m sorry. That’s so hard, isn’t it? I’ve also lost my true love.”
Forsaken, more like. He’d been enduringly faithful while she’d opened her heart to someone new. But telling her who he was
so plainly would be her death, so he kept the information locked in his chest. The heartache, however, wanted her to taste
his pain.
“Devastated you, did it?” Bram snapped.
She raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m no scholar, but it couldn’t have been a deep attachment if you’re marrying another.”
Her gasp scattered the birds from the courtyard. Ah, blood and bones. His chivalry had known better days. Perhaps his loss
of control was for the best. Marigold would think him a rough orc, and she’d be more motivated to move on.
“You’re right—you’re no scholar. You’re an absolute oaf. It’s spectacularly unwise to provoke someone who’s about to pierce
your flesh. As for the meat of what you said . . .” She cleared her throat, then fixed her gaze on his eyes. “You know me
not, Jask. If you’d like to learn more about how the betrothal came about, you’ll need to first tell me about your lost love and how you dealt with it. I doubt you will, however. In my experience men don’t enjoy expressing emotions.”
“I’m not a man,” he muttered.
“Saints, you know what I mean.” With one hand, she pushed the wound closed. With the other, she readied the needle. “Do you
want me to keep talking? It may help distract you from the task at hand, though I promise I’ll be quick.”
“You still plan to stitch the wound?”
“Yes. I’m petty, but I’m not that petty.”
He was, indeed, an absolute oaf.
“Keep talking.”
She nodded. Concentration tightened her features, and her disarming tenderness loosened something in his chest.
“Here we go,” she said. “Saints guide my hand.”
Bram grunted as the needle pierced his skin. Not as painful as the vinegar, but not how he’d prefer to spend his morning.
“You have parallel lifelines.” Another prick of the needle. “That indicates a person living two paths or two identities.”
His fingers tensed.
She glanced up at him. “Sorry. We’re nearly done.” She returned her gaze to his palm. “Were you not meant to be a farmer,
Jask? Were you supposed to join a questing party and seek adventure and steal dragon hoards?”
“Dragons aren’t real,” he countered.
“Why must you squash my whimsy with reality?” She sighed. “Isn’t the world more fun if you imagine there are dragons and unicorns
in it?”
He nearly asked if unicorns were still her favorite creature. Instead, he pressed his lips together. She tied off the stitch,
then clipped it with her shears.
“There.” Marigold sat back on her heels, then reached for the vinegar. “Five stitches. A final wash, then a poultice of honey
and thyme.”
He sucked the air through his teeth. More stinging. And he’d need to add vinegar to the list for Alfred.
“This next part won’t hurt.” She drizzled honey from the pot he kept in the kitchen. Hmph. The pot was low, and it was his last. In the next week or two he’d gather some from the hive in the orchard.
“Now, a little thyme.” She uncorked a small bottle and sprinkled dried herbs on the honey. The peppery herbal aroma filled the air, but she was right—it didn’t hurt. “And clean linen to wrap it.”
She folded a handkerchief into a square, then pressed that to the wound. Next, she wrapped a thin strip around his hand and
neatly tucked the end, then secured it with a brass pin from her bag. “There you go. All done.”
He held up his tidily bandaged hand. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“When my true love left me to seek his fortune, I filled my hours to stave off melancholia.” She rolled most of her instruments
back up and stashed them in the bag, leaving the needle and scissors on the linen. “I studied medical arts. Geography, alchemy,
beekeeping, gardening—things like that. I was always in the castle’s library or conservatory.”
Ah, that was why she’d paled.
“I thought princesses only studied etiquette and protocol.”
“Don’t forget embroidery.” She winked at him.
He coughed to disguise the laugh rumbling in his chest. As she finished organizing her equipment, he drank in the picture
she made. Her exterior was the same, but she’d changed since they’d parted five years ago. Compared to his memory, this Marigold
was more confident and less prone to dramatic fits.
“You surprise me,” he said.
“And you, me. Isn’t it delightful to be surprised by a person?” She surged to her feet, then dusted her hand together. “If
orcs heal similarly to humans, your hand should be as good as new in ten to fourteen days. Until then, I wouldn’t use it too
much, or you risk popping the stitches and reopening the wound. Looks like you’re stuck with me for the next fortnight.”
He’d never survive it.
“Shall we finally break our fast?” she asked. “We could have more brie, or—”
“Please not, for the love of saints.” His swollen hand throbbed. There was no easy way for him to cook, but he craved something heartier.
“As you wish, sir.” With her back straight, she sank into a perfect curtsy, then rose again. “Toast, then? I don’t know how
to make anything else.”
He knew that. Princesses rarely spent their lives in the kitchens. They were taught to supervise household staff, not do the
work themselves. Not so for knights or their squires.
“Well then, Princess, would you like to learn?”