“Of course,” Alfie said.
“Be careful,” I urged, as he scrambled under the haphazardly perched carriage to lean inside. On the outside, Rory and I steadied the frame to prevent it from collapsing.
Alfie shoved first Kit’s portmanteau out and slid it away. My reticule followed, tossed atop the larger bag. Then I heard the shifting of my trunk which he pulled free with a grunt before crawling free of the wreckage.
While he collected himself, I helped Rory pull the trunks from the back rack, the frame creaking irritably.
“What do you suppose happened?” I asked.
“Hit a rock in the muck. We didnae see it and it cracked the wheel.” She nodded toward the fractured wheel, crushed into at least three pieces.
“Where are we?” Kit called from the tree. When I turned, he had already found his way to a knee and was trying to press himself up.
“Absolutely not.” I stomped over to him, my feet squishing in the muck, and shoved against his shoulder until he collapsed back down with a petulant groan.
“Davina,” he snapped, but didn’t fight me. “Rory, where are we?”
“Few miles north of Grantham, I expect.”
“Did we pass Foston?”
“Not yet,” she called back.
“That’s good,” he mused to himself, trying to stand against the weight of my hand.
“Kit, stop. We’ve just slowed your bleeding.”
“We need to get help,” he insisted.
“Someone will be by soon.”
He shook his head, then flopped back against the tree again when I wouldn’t relent my counterweight. “Would you stop that?”
“No. Now sit still. I need to clean that cut.”
“With what? Mud?” he asked, catching my hand again and waving it in front of my face. True, I wasn’t much good like this.
Considering for a second, I supplied, “Whiskey.”
“Oh, hell. I’d do better to drink it.”
“Not with a head wound.”
He rolled his eyes but released my hand so I could ferret out the whiskey from my trunk. Using a bit of our water, I rinsed my hands before digging for the drink and a couple clean handkerchiefs.
“Ye had whiskey this whole time?” Alfie grumbled. “Fancy folk never share.”
Ignoring the grumbles from the boy, I handed Kit the water skin. He took a heavy slug before rinsing his own hands. I dampened one handkerchief then wiped away the worst of his dried blood. His forehead was beginning to swell but no fresh blood escaped.
I repeated the process, dampening a new cloth with the whiskey. Only when I turned to face him did I hesitate at the sight of the angry, reddened flesh. “This is going to hurt,” I offered, wincing with sympathy.
“Never would’ve guessed,” he retorted.
If I hadn’t caught the clench of his jaw as he ground his teeth, I would’ve snapped back. Instead I pressed the cloth to his wound, slowly, gently.
I felt Kit’s breath catch and his eyes pinched shut, but he made no other sound. Delicately, I dabbed the whiskey-soaked fabric.
“You need stitches,” I whispered again.
