“Go ahead and lie on the bed.” As she does so, I retrieve my surgery kit.
“What is that?” Lorelei sits upright, eyes on the kit as I make my way toward her.
“It’s my surgery tools, although I doubt I’ll need them. It just helps me feel more professional to have it by my side.”
Her eyes go wide. “Don’t you dare use them on me. I can smell the iron from here.”
“I won’t then.” I push the kit away from me, and Lorelei settles back on the bed. A question I’ve had hovers in my mind, and I try to find a tactful way to ask it without making her suspicious. “My tools are carbon steel, an iron alloy. Is such a metal harmful to fae?”
“Normally only pure iron is lethal to us, especially if it maintains contact with our flesh for too long, but any iron injury weakens us until we fully heal, making even weaker human metals unbearable to touch.” She lifts her head and eyes me with a scowl. “Don’t get any ideas.”
I kneel at the side of the bed next to her and adopt my most soothing bedside manner. “I won’t hurt you.”
Lorelei lets out a resigned grumble as she lifts the hem of her silky bronze dress to reveal the injured leg. My stomach churns to see her battered flesh again, to see the pink, puckered skin where iron teeth had torn it to shreds. I inspect every inch of the leg, looking for signs of infection. Although, I’m not entirely sure what to look for, aside from what I’m used to seeing in humans; I have no idea what to expect from fae infection.
Next, I gently prod the skin in places, asking Lorelei to tell me if anything feels tender. There are a few painful areas, but for the most part, her leg appears to be on the mend. Her bones seem to be set correctly. I’m almost certain I detect stitches in places, although they look nothing like the stitches I’ve seen. Hers are fine and delicate, weaving the skin together with little evidence of intervention.
“Who tended your wounds?” I ask.
She turns her head to face me. “I did some on my own. As a wood nymph, I was able to speak to the vines and roots to brace my leg and hold my torn flesh together so I could make it to Bircharbor. Gildmar did the rest.”
“Who’s Gildmar?”
“She’s an Earthen fae employed by the Autumn Court for healing. She cleansed my wounds with herbs and stitched the deepest ones with spider silk.”
“It looks like she did well. I’m going to check your range of motion now.” I lift her leg, easing her to bend slightly at the knee. “Does it hurt when you walk or put weight on the leg?”
“A little.” Her words are still laced with a bitter edge. “Other things hurt more. Things no one can ever heal.”
My stomach sinks. I rotate her ankle slightly one way then the other. “What was she like?”
She furrows her brow. “Who? Gildmar?”
“No. Your lover. The one you lost.”
Her eyes turn to the ceiling, a blank expression on her face. The weight of her leg seems to grow heavier, as if the question drained all the strength from her. I think she might ignore me, until she finally says, “Malan was beautiful. A pixie from the Spring Court with wings as pink and fine as cherry blossom petals. Her hair was the same color, a silvery-pink that always smelled of roses.” She sighs. “Malan was the best part of me. She kept me kind. Made me laugh. I loved her.”
My throat feels tight as tears prick my eyes.
Lorelei lifts her head to meet my gaze. “Are you finished?”
Her tone isn’t unkind but snaps me out of my daze. I realize I’d released her leg, my hands frozen and resting lightly on her shin. With a shake of my head to clear it, I rise to my feet. “Yes. I feel confident you will heal well. I see no sign of infection and your range of motion is what I’d expect at this point of recovery.”
Lorelei stands, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “You know, it actually feels much better.” She lifts her gown, examining her leg. “It looks better too. What is it a surgeon does, anyway?”
I’m torn between laughing and maintaining my professional manner. She must have thought my actions were more than simple inspection. How can I explain I didn’t do a thing to help her? That whatever ease she feels is nothing more than a placebo? “A surgeon usually operates on tissues and organs with tools like the ones I have in my kit.”
She takes a few steps, then flashes me a smile—something I’ve rarely seen from her. “Well, whatever you did, it worked. It hardly hurts.”
“Perhaps the stretching and motion exercises helped,” I say, not wanting to lose her gratitude by telling her the truth. “See if you can continue gentle stretches daily to improve your overall flexibility.”
“Sure. Uh, thank you for this.” She wrings her hands, as if suddenly uncertain around me, then bites her lip. “I suppose I should apologize, shouldn’t I?”
I tilt my head. “For what?”
She sighs. “I’m not sorry for what I did to the Butcher—to your friend. But I know it must have hurt you to see him in pain. That I’m sorry for. And for saying you were a self-righteous harpy with a mouth bigger than her brain.”
“You never said that.”
