I put him up in my mother’s bed, since the prospect of him sleeping in mine is, of course, unfathomable. After checking his airways, I administer nocturn to keep him sedated. Then I assess his injuries. It’s even worse than it looks. He has a skull fracture, a slew of broken bones, and half a dozen organs requiring reconstruction. Complicated, messy stuff—healing that stretches the limits of what I’ve even studied in theory.
My Talent demands total concentration. Before the war, Elves with Talents would train under Mages to hone theirunique skills. Without a Mage to teach me, and no one but myself and Mother to practice on, it’s taken years to master even simple injuries like a skinned knee or a broken finger. First, I visualize each intertwining strand of his life force. Then I push and pull on each thread with the precision of a master tailor. Any mistake could be deadly. I hold my breath as I draw upon my power to mend his skull, his organs, his leg, and finally the fractures and gash in his chest. Once he’s stable, I pump him full of restorative potions and slather his wounds with salves.
While he sleeps, I strip off his clothing (averting my eyes from the unpleasantries) and search for any identifying items. He’d been carrying little when he was attacked. I find no identification or papers, just a compass, a small traveler’s map of the Midlands, his sword, the sheath strapped to his belt, and a pouch of coins I refrain from counting.
His body fascinates me. He’s massive, at least a head taller than me, and yet still has the puppyish look of someone with a growth spurt ahead of them. His arms and shoulders are muscled, his hands callused. I notice cracked and bleeding skin in the webbing between his forefinger and thumb. His nails are bitten to the quick. He’s hairy, too, hairyeverywhere—a revelation I find particularly intriguing. As the swelling reduces, his features emerge sharp and symmetrical: a straight nose, thick eyebrows, and a wide, haughty mouth over a sharp little chin. I can’t place his age. Eighteen? Twenty?
Next, I prepare the cottage, removing anything that might reveal our Elven heritage. My mother’s spellbooks get shoved into a knapsack at the back of our closet. We keep a customary altar to Elowyn, Goddess of Life, in the east window, which must also be deconstructed. I move the flowers to the kitchen table, string the seashells over my bed, and tuck the prayer slips into a napkin drawer, feeling somewhat guilty over the arrangement. My kerchief stays knotted tightly over myears, but I recite the concealment charm every few hours as a precaution. It becomes habitual to brush the tips with my fingers, ensuring my spellwork is sound this time.
Perpetual motion over the next few days leaves little time to ponder the consequences of my decisions—something I’m avoiding at all costs. It’s a technique I learned from Mother. If my mind is busy with the problem in front of me, there’s no space for anything else. So I act as she does when she’s troubled: fussing, double-checking, sweeping the floor just to have something to do with my hands.
Then, on the eighth morning, I see it.
A twitch. It’s so subtle that at first, I’m convinced I imagined it. But then…
Again. His eyelids. They’re fluttering.
He’s about to wake up.
My stomach lurches. I back up, suddenly keen to put space between us. He doesn’t move again for a long while, but I know we’ve turned a corner. I pace the cottage, with my stomach in knots. I wash and rewash my hands. In an abundance of caution, I find some rope and tie his ankles together and knot his wrists to the bedposts—can’t have him trying to kill me after he regains consciousness. I’ve got my father’s dagger, of course, but I swipe another knife from the kitchen and tuck it into my apron. Just in case. Then I take a seat beside him.
What feels like hours (but may have been minutes) later, his eyelids twitch again.
Then, softly, he moans,“Eeeeaaaaarrrrhhhtttsssssssss.”
I bolt upright, heart thundering.
He moans again faintly.“Errrrryythhhhhnnnhrrrts.”
“Sorry—I don’t understand,” I say. Perhaps he doesn’t speak the common tongue? “You’ve got some strong medicine in your system.”
“Everything hurts.”His eyes open.
Slowly, he looks left to right, then up and down, appraising the rafters, the bubbling cauldron by the stove, and the narrow steps leading to my bedroom in the attic, lingering on each detail like he’s memorizing it. My mind races, imagining what he might think of the house, the bedding, his bandages.Does it seemother? Peculiar?
Finally, his gaze finds me.
I’m hardly breathing as we lock into a staring contest that stretches on and on for eternity. Then, with a bolt of new and profound self-consciousness, I consider:What does he think ofme?
I run a self-inventory. My hair, always fairer and finer than my mother’s, is tied back into a sloppy braid underneath my kerchief. My work dress is threadbare and faded but clean. As far as I can tell, we appear to be approximately similar in terms of looks. Same brown hair, freckled skin, and sharp nose. Still, I wonder,Can he tell what I am? Are things about to get violent?
He clears his throat, breaking the silence. “Well…” His voice is deep and ragged from neglect. “Good morning.”
I shiver, though the cottage is warm. “Good morning. I’m glad you’re awake.”
A knot bobs in his throat. “Why…” He coughs, hands twitching in the restraints. “Why am I tied up?”
“That’s for my safety.”
“Foryoursafety?” he repeats, eyebrows rising.
“Yes.” My voice sounds about an octave too high. “I need to be sure you’re not a threat before I allow you to move freely.”
“Right.” A laugh rumbles out of him. “Since we’re establishing present threats, how exactly did I end up in your bed?”
Does he really not remember?
“You were attacked,” I explain tentatively. “I heard you screaming for help…and I came.”
