After I woke, Taurance recounted what happened after the stranger made it to our cabin with Gem, who was as white as a corpse. He laid her out on the cot while Taur fetched some supplies from the retired midwife two doors down the hall.
“You meanafterhe raided my drawers and stole my clothes,” Gem huffs as she maneuvers into a sitting position on the cot beside mine.
Taur tuts her tongue against the back of her teeth, then rises to fetch the tea tree oil from the kitchen table. “It’s the least we could offer him for saving both your asses.”
Not only did this man give me a hand with the boulder and with Gem, he also acted as a stand-in body on my cot when a guard came knocking on our cabin door for the head count.
I meet Gem’s gaze and give a“she has a point”tilt of my chin.
Her green irises roll. “But why did he need my clothes? What was he doing sneaking around the tunnels half-naked in the middle of the day? For all we know, he could’ve been the prisoner they were transferring in that train.”
In other words, what have I gotten us into?
No one speaks. Even if we allow ourselves to consider the questions we’d rather avoid, we don’t have the answers, and I’m not so sure I want them.
There’s a strong chance the man we welcomed into our home is a criminal. What other reason would someone have to traverse the tunnels—with few clothes and zero belongings—during daylight hours, if not to avoid notice? Perhaps he was caught having an affair. It’s not unimaginable that a man of his physique might attract the forbidden attention of a married woman, or a man, for that matter. A ridiculous image comes to mind of the stern-faced stranger scrambling to tug his linen pants back on after getting caught in an indecent entanglement.
That must be it. Or maybe I’m indulging myself because it’s more palatable to think we harbored a red-handed lover instead of someone truly nefarious.
The sound of running water from the other side of the partition curtains fills the notable silence as Taur drenches a fresh cloth using the midwife’s recommended mixture of tea tree oil, magnesium sulfate, and chilled water. She’s back a moment later, tossing her braid behind her shoulder and peeling away the soiled cloth wrapped around the crown of Gem’s head.
“Sutures are holding up okay,” Taur comments before dabbing at the few blots of crimson surrounding the wound before covering the sutures with a dry compression cloth.
Gem winces. “It’s only been a few hours, T. Fairly sure stitches are meant to last at least a week or two.”
Taur swats Gem’s leg with the dirty cloth. “I’ve assisted the midwives with postpartum tears, but this is my first time using sutures on a scalp. It’s a bit different from a perineum or vagi?—”
“Okay, okay, we get it,” Gem says, splotches of pink bringingcolor back to her wan cheeks. “Can you stop hovering now? Go bother Orelle. She got hurt, too.”
“My ass is as good as new,” I quip, hoping the twins will leave it at that.
But of course, they don’t.
Taurance arches her brows. “And your hand?”
My pulse trips on itself.
“Fine,” I practically chirp as I swing my legs off the cot, thankful that the nap was enough of a reprieve to ease the pounding in my brain and stomach, if not the aching in my calves.
Ignoring the prickle of eyes on my wrapped arm, I amble over to the table, where our belongings from the satchels are neatly organized in rows. The bags themselves are hanging from the curtain rod. Taur must’ve cleared everything out to give them a good scrubbing. Gone are the bloodstains and dirt, and I can easily patch the tears with my . . .
The sight of my black makeshift cast dashes any ideas I have about sewing up our battered bags. I haven’t felt the warm tingle of energy since waking from my nap, but the thought of unraveling the wool fabric to check on how far the mutation has spread makes my skin crawl. So, I return my focus to the table, ready to assess the damage to our belongings. My mother’s recipe journal lies warped at the table’s center. I pick it up and try to peel apart the first two pages. The paper rips, its fibers brittle thanks to my dunk in the reservoir.
At least the sand clock should be safe. I set the leather journal down and search for the other heirloom. My brows pinch together when I don’t spot it among the orderly piles. I’m about to ask Taurance if she tucked it away, when I spot the leftover sourdough. It’s mashed on one side, but by some highest of miracles, the bread isn’t soggy. My stomach groans, reminding me I’ve skipped at least two meals.
“Are you seriously ignoring me right now?” Taurance snatchesthe loaf out of my grip. “Let me take a look at it.”
“The bread?” I ask, intentionally obtuse. I know she means my hand, but I’m not ready to have that conversation yet. Can’t we have just one more hour of them treating me like a chosen sister instead of a monster in the making?
Taurance’s face twists intothatlook—the one I’ve seen my mother wear dozens of times. The one making it clear we both know that’s a lie.
“It barely hurts.” I fold my arms tight across my chest, tucking my cast beneath my good arm. “And it’s not like there’s anything you can do.”
“If it barely hurts, why do you need to keep that on?” Eyes narrowing, she nudges her chin at the shawl.
Shadows swallow me. Looks like I’m not getting that extra hour.
Metal scrapes against stone as I tug a chair out from the table and spin it around. Taurance clutches the sourdough for emotional support as she too takes a seat.
