Abe reaches for the bandage over my temple. I whimper, try to turn my head away, but fear locks my muscles up tight.
“Look at her, Prophet.” Gently, he pulls the bandage away. “Her surgery was less than forty-eight hours ago. The incision hasn’t even started to heal. If you want her strong enough to take the holy wine and complete her sacrifice, you’ll let me treat her.”
“Fine,” Prophet snaps. “I will send my wives up to bring the anointed flowers to the altar. Brother Malone will be right outside. Treat her quickly. You still have to mix the holy wine for tonight. Twice as strong as last time. I want it ready by eight.”
“Yes, Prophet,” Abe says, his eyes downcast. “Twice as strong.”
The door shuts—almost softly—and the sound of his boots fades away.
Only then do I draw an easy breath.
Abe listens for another minute, then carefully lowers himself down into the chair. “Grace, I am sorry.” His lower lip wobbles slightly. “When he found out you were alive…he kept me in the box for three days. Until he learned it was hypothermia that saved you.”
Tears prick at my eyes. I fumble for Abe’s hand, and squeeze once. How could Prophet be so cruel as to torture his own father?
Floorboards creak beyond the door. Abe jerks his arm back as Prophet’s four wives, clad in identical pink dresses, file into the room. Their eyes never meet mine. They move like ghosts, scooping up armfuls of blossoms, their skirts brushing against the bed frame. Petals scatter across the floor, bruised and torn. When they leave again, the air is a fraction clearer, though oleander still sickens me more with each breath.
Abe lingers at my side, studying me the way a man might study a wounded foal. His gaze drifts to the mess at the side of the bed, the sour bile streaked over a few crushed blooms, the sharp tang of vomit mixing with the flowers. His jaw tightens.
He moves quickly into the bathroom, the faint rush of water following. The sound nearly breaks me—I want it so badly. My mouth aches with dryness, my tongue thick and useless. I claw for the word, but all that comes out is a pitiful sob. “Terr…”
Abe kneels beside the bed, a washcloth in his hands with steam still rising from the white fabric. His brows knit. “What did you say, my dear?”
“Th–thir—” The syllable fractures against my cracked lips. My hand trembles as I mime lifting a cup.
Understanding dawns in his eyes. He sets the cloth next to me, disappearing again, then returns with a glass filled nearly to the brim.
He has to steady it at my lips. I gulp too fast, choking, water spilling down my chin. I could weep at how good it tastes. It’s the only thing untainted by the horrors of this place.
“Slowly, Grace. Slowly,” he murmurs. Once I’ve had half a glass, he sets it down and retrieves the washcloth.
With a gentle touch, he cleans the bile from the corner of my mouth, dabs at the sheets, and finally, swipes the soiled cloth across the floor.
When he finishes, his gaze flicks to my temple. “You need a fresh bandage. May I?”
I manage the smallest nod.
He digs in his leather bag, coming up with a roll of gauze, some medical tape, and a small brown bottle. The antiseptic stings, and I hiss out a breath.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he murmurs as he presses a fresh square of gauze to the wound and tapes it into place. “But if this gets infected…” His hands start to shake, and he jerks them away. “It…won’t matter. Because my son…” A tear carves a silent trail down his cheek.
I can’t let him spiral. Not when this is my only chance. “A…A…J.” The letters are almost clear, but does he have any idea what they mean? “C…cuh…ming.”
Abe blinks, as if he can’t possibly have heard me right. “AJ?” His voice is barely audible. “That’s your husband? The Ranger?”
I nod hard enough to make my skull throb. “Cer…em. Nee…Lih…vve.” I pound a weak fist against the mattress, frustrated when the word collapses into nonsense.
Think, Grace. Find another way.
With shaking hands, I reach for his sleeve, yank his wrist closer, and trace clumsy letters against his palm.
D-E-L-A-Y.
His mouth opens, closes. He glances at the door like he expects Prophet to burst in any second. Then he leans close. “I can’t delay the ceremony, Grace. Even if I could, the ritual wine—the oleander—at the concentration my son wants… It will stop your heart long before the blade touches you.”
I try again to make him understand, pressing harder this time.
1-5 M-I-N.
