The priestess’s attack raven hisses again.
“And Bibi,” I mutter, on edge.
“‘And Bibi.’ Of course,” Sadrie huffs. “Getting yourselfmauledby a raven is a perfectly fine way to catch a disease.”
Nausea clenches my gut, my mouth filling with saliva. “Fair point.”
“What in gods’ nameshappenedin there?”
“Mostly pruning from what I could tell.”
The door slams shut so hard, Elodie must have kicked it. I’m impressed the glass didn’t shatter.
It’s just as well; I’m stalling. Trying to patch together any amalgamation of events that might have led to my current condition.
“I can’t remember,” I say at last, although that’s not entirely accurate.
I remember my legs carrying me in there as if they had a mind of their own. Dropping into the chair, then feeling overheated and deliciously uninhibited.
The thought of Bibi’s talons piercing my flesh is enough to get my heart racing again.
Somehow, the stretch in between is blank. But I know the pain burning through my arm is what yanked me from the fugue state.
“And here you are, pale and sweating and going into shock without a cloak on, while it’s freezing!” Sadrie fusses over me. “Where is yourcloak, you screwball?”
“Took it off when the sun came out,” I slur, glancing toward the cabbages.
She looks at the sky and gardens, then surveys me. “Whatsun? It’s been overcast all day.”
“No. I don’t know how long I was in there, but—" But the way she’s looking at me, as if I’m speaking another language, silences the rest of it.Terrific. Evidently I’m hallucinating, on top of losing control of my body and blacking out. “Never mind.”
She stands and unfastens her own cloak, sweeping it around my shoulders.
“Mmm,” I moan into its warmth. “Smells like you.”
She drops to the ground again, shivering but reaching to rebutton my gaping shirt anyway. “Come on, songbird. Let’s get you inside and patched up. You’re going to need some stitches.”
“Oh, indisputably.”
In total, I am given fifteen stitches and a tube of analgesic ointment that isn’t nearly strong enough and am bandaged dramatically from wrist to elbow, although the injury is only about ten inches long.
Managing to convince Fiona that I cut myself on a garden tool, I’m rewarded with an excruciating shot from an enormous needle.
I’m told to wash and rebandage the wound exactly once every day, informed I’m lucky I didn’t “lose my arm,” then paraded to the bathhouse where said arm is wrapped in a pillowcase and the rest of me is dunked in a tub and fussed over endlessly.
Early the next morning, Elodie pays me a visit.
“I won’t stay long,” she mumbles around a startlingly bruised and swollen lip.
Sitting up in bed, bleary-eyed, I draw the blankets up with my good arm, trying not to stare. My shift is plastered to my skin, and heat surges in my veins.
“You’re dismissed from your schedule today. Frankly, I don’t want to see you after this.” Her adroitness at sounding both flat and bitterly cold through her lisp is compelling—I’ll admit.
I barely slept last night, if you could call what I did “sleeping.” I wouldn’t classify it asrestfulby any stretch. Yesterday’s missing chunk of time is like an itch I can’t scratch. But I don’t get a headache when I try to remember, so whatever’s causing it has nothing to do with the ritual.
“From everything?” I ask. “Even prayers?”
Expressionless, she huffs a sigh and moves to peer out of the window.
