The blaze of pain is so intense that for a few minutes I’m sure I snapped the bone. But after wheezing and sobbing for a while, I work up the courage to peel down my stocking and inspect the area.
My ankle is swelling already, puffing up like a shiny pink skin-pillow. Gritting my teeth, I poke and prod until I’mconvinced it’s the tendons, not the bones, that are damaged. It’s a sprain, not a break.
But it might as well be broken, because I can’t walk on it. When I drag myself upright, hands braced against a tree, and try to put the slightest weight on that foot, I almost scream again. I can’t do it.
How far did I run from the Barrow? How much distance remains between me and the edge of the forest? There are few landmarks in Wormsloe, and along this stretch of the path, the sameness is especially demoralizing.
I sink to my knees, trying not to let any part of my injured foot touch the earth. My kneecaps hurt as they grind against lumpy soil, pebbles, and roots, so I switch tactics and sit on my ass, holding my injured leg up and crawling backward along the path. Anne and I used to do this in the garden when we were little. Mama called it crab-walking.
Reluctantly I abandon the basket. With my injury, it’s completely impractical to bring it with me. I’m determined to get myself home before dark, if I have to crab-walk the whole way.
Unfortunately my palms start burning after I’ve crawled along the path for several minutes. If I keep going like this, they’ll be chafed raw.
“What am I going to do?” I whisper, tears slipping from my eyes. “What thefuckam I going to do?”
I sit there with my cloak puddled around me, seething with angry terror through my tears while I pick bits of rotten leaves and dirt from the heels of my hands. The scrapes are pretty bad already.
I’ve almost worked up the nerve for another stint of crab-crawling when I hear a faraway whistle—a pure, clear melody coming from a pair of pursed lips.Humanlips.
“Help!” I scream, at the top of my lungs. “Help, please!”
The whistling pauses, and a male voice calls, “Hello? Who is it?”
Usually I wouldn’t want to meet a strange man in the forest, but at this point, I’ll take any human assistance I can get. “Please help me! I’ve sprained my ankle.”
Booted feet stomp closer, and a tall figure comes into view, clad in fitted black trousers and a creamy, blousy shirt, half-unbuttoned. I recognize the broad chest, the thick neck, and the well-trimmed blue beard.
“Beresford!” I wipe my eyes and nose quickly on my sleeve. “What are you doing here?”
“I stopped by your house, and your sister said you’d gone into the woods for the day. She said you usually return around sunset, which is fast approaching, so I thought I’d take a stroll into the forest on the chance of meeting you. She told me which path to take.”
“You can’t be here,” I exclaim. “This place isn’t good, it isn’t safe. We need to go.”
“One moment.” He takes a knee and inspects my injury. “That looks painful. This shoe needs to come off before we go anywhere, and we need to stabilize your ankle.”
“Are you a physician?”
“Certainly not.” He throws me a quick grin, then pulls off his shirt. “But I’ve seen my share of wounds.”
I’m at a loss for words, grateful for his presence yet unsure about it, too. It seems almost too convenient, like fate, and though I might occasionally swear by Fate or by the old gods, I don’t believe in them.
Still, I don’t complain about the view of his rippling muscles as he takes out a knife and cuts his shirt into strips. After removing my shoe, he pads my ankle with a few scraps of cloth, then moves to the nearest tree and carves off two large, curved pieces of bark. Setting the bark on either side of my wrapped ankle, he ties them in place with more strips of the shirt, forming a protective casing. My ankle still hurts, but it’s a bit less proneto accidentally bending one way or the other, which helps with the pain.
“Now if you’ll just carry this, we’ll get you home.” He hands me my shoe, then crouches and lifts me smoothly and carefully into his arms.
I was not expecting this today. I didn’t have time to mentally prepare for the stimulation of being cradled against the warm expanse of his chest or experiencing the power of his body as he carries me through the forest at an easy walk, as if I weigh no more than a kitten.
“What were you doing out here in the woods?” he asks. “Foraging for nuts like a squirrel?”
I glance up at him, piqued because I actually did that last winter, when things were at their worst. I searched through the layer of snow and leaves, hunting for acorns, and when I got home we cracked them open and combined them with oil to make a paste. I fear we burned more energy trying to process them than we gained from their meat, but at least it passed the time.
“I was visiting a friend,” I say crisply. “Grandmother Riquet.”
“And is she well?”
“Well enough, I suppose.”
“You seem uncertain.”
