“It’s not silly.” Olive hesitates, and she keeps her eyes on the road again. “It makes me feel guilty.”
“Guilty! Why?”
She shrugs a little. “After the war . . . ?after Wyatt . . . ?I was so resentful of Rian, of Oren, of all the fighting, really. I just wanted to be . . . ?away. I haven’t left my house much. I haven’t done anything for the people. And you aren’t even from here, and you’re already trying to help.”
“Well, we’ll see,” I say. “Maybe I won’t be helping anyone at all. I might have packed all these crates for nothing.”
Olive clucks to the horses to pick up the pace. “If so, we’ll go back to the house and make more cheese sandwiches.”
Ellmo’s ears perk up. “Can we do that now?”
But then we crest the hill, and the little village Erik and I found the other day comes into view. Dozens of people have gathered near the little food stand where we met Henry. No,hundredsof people. They’re everywhere. Some are on crutches, some have arms bound in a sling. There are a lot of people in the shade, leaning against trees or buildings, while other people tend to them. When they spot the wagon, many of them send up a cheer.
I stare. “I . . . ?don’t think I brought too much.”
Olive shakes her head. “I don’t think you brought enough.”
We work for hours, sweating in the sun. I barely find a spare moment to eat or drink, because it seems that the line of people is never-ending. I hear stories of the war, of hunger, of desperation. Some people are simply ill, while others have more serious, lingeringinjuries. I’m glad I got practice on Erik’s infection, because similar wounds are common, and my dress is stained with blood and tears before long. I wishIhad a bottle of whiskey to drink.
Olive is right—I didn’t bring enough supplies to treat everyone, and when I run out, I begin making a list of names and ailments so I know what else I need to make so I can return with it tomorrow.
I am surprised to discover that almost everyone knows Olive. After the way she talked about hiding herself away after her husband died, I expected them to treat her like a stranger, too, but everyone knows her by name.
As I’m wrapping gauze around an old woman’s forearm from a burn, she says, “It’s so good to see Livvy helping you. She’s been cooped up for far too long. Such a shame about her poor Wyatt.”
I nod. “She’s becoming a good friend.”
“He wanted her to take the throne, you know. We would have supported her all the way. But she was so sad after her husband was gone.”
My hands go still on the gauze. “Rian wanted her to take the throne?”
“What? No. Wyatt. He was a good man for her.” She winces a little when I tie off the bandage. “Redstone is a fighter, and he’s kept us safe. But we didn’t want to fight. I’m glad it’s over.”
I stare at her. This is the first time someone other than Olive has described Rian in this way, without the usual adoration. I want to ask her more, but she glances to her left and says, “I’ve kept you too long. There are so many more people.” She touches her fingers to her heart, then kisses them. “You have my thanks, dear. A lot of us were worried this was a trap, because we remember what Kandala did, but when we saw you with Livvy, we knew it was all right.”
Before I can say anything to that, she’s gone, and I’m on to the next person.
By the time night falls, I want to sleep in the wagon. Olive looks the same.
“Maybe Ellmo should drive us back,” I say to her.
I expect him to give me a saucy response, but then I realize he’s sound asleep in the back, curled up on the rolls of muslin beside my empty crates.
Olive and I lean on each other on the way back to the house, and I think about the day, about missing my friend Karri, about my longing for Corrick and the hole in my heart that aches with every beat. But Erik was right—I needed to move. I’m glad that I did.
When we finally arrive at the house, though, Erik is sitting in front of the barn, a lit lantern on the bench beside him. As soon as he sees us, he’s on his feet. The lantern lights up his face, and I can tell he’s unhappy.
“What’s wrong?” I say. “Are you unwell? What happened?”
“What’s wrong?” he demands. “What’swrong? You’ve been gone for more than twelve hours. I was ready to saddle one of the horses, and this injury be damned.”
Olive and I exchange a glance, then climb down from the wagon.
Erik isn’t done. “It’s well past nightfall. How could the two of you even see on the road? What if you’d encountered thieves? IknewI should have gone with—”
He stops short as Olive steps in front of him and takes hold of his shirt. She rises up on her toes and kisses him on the cheek. “Thank you for your concern. We won’t worry you again.”
Then she pats him on the arm and moves away.
