And you want to heal herwhy?
I snort, then transform back to smoke.Because she’s been helpful. Give me instructions.
It’s my grandfather who answers:You’ll have to sever the infected limb to stop the iron from spreading. If you wish her to regrow it, use a blade that isn’t iron. Otherwise, you’ll get a cleaner cut with your shadows. Alternatively, you could try the saw sigil, but since you’re a Crow, Behach Batee, your blood might hinder regrowth.
I’m so horrified by what I must do that, when I snap back into flesh, I lose my balance and bump into the wall.
Elio glances in my general direction, his eyes dark with concern. “Isla?”
“Sorry.”A non-iron blade…
I take stock of what I have on hand: two iron daggers (useless), glass shards from the shattered mirror and carafe (can’t cut bone with glass). There was a butter knife on the dining table! I can elongate the blade and shar?—
“I can’t feel my leg,” Sofiya whispers hoarsely.
The gray tinge of iron has crept past her kneecap. I make a split-second decision—one the vain Fae will probably hold against me for the rest of her life, but at least she’ll have a life.
As I approach her, I use my talons to split the calluses on my thumbs. “Forgive me for what I’m about to do, but it’s the only way to keep the iron in your blood from reaching your heart.”
Hopefully.
“What are you about to—” She quiets when I tear off the rest of her stocking.
“El, can you ice her thigh with your magic so it goes numb?”
“Why?” Sofiya’s alarm sears the stuffy air.
“To get the iron out,” I say, keeping it vague.
Elio molds her thigh with his hands. “Sorry for touching you…inappropriately.”
“Please. This is the most action I’ve gotten in a decade,” she reassures him, her pitch steadier, her breathing more even.
Elio’s icy palms must have rid her of the pain.
Once he lets go, I prod a few places on her leg, making her flicker in and out of sight. “Did you feel that?”
“No.”
I press my damp thumbs above her knee, making us both fade from sight and then I begin the harrowing process of amputation. Sofiya holds still—because she’s too drained to fight, or because she trusts I have her best interest at heart?
“Tell us about your future husband,” I say, to keep her mind off her leg. “Maybe Elio knows him. He spends lots of time in Nebba.”
Her answer is so slow to come that I think she might have passed out. But then her voice rises like a wisp of smoke, “His name is Amaury Acron. He makes artistic glass sculptures. He sent me a vase. It’s quite pretty. Ever heard of him?”
“Yes,” Elio tells her, clutching his elbows. “My aunts have many pieces from him. He’s very famous in Nebba.”
Speak to me, Isla,my father calls through the bond.
But I can’t speak to him. Not yet. I need to concentrate. And hurry. I need to hurry. Like wet clay, I feel Sofiya’s flesh crack apart, the furrow deepening with each new ring of blood I add.
“Is he as handsome as you are?” she asks Elio.
“Um. He’s, um?—”
Another ring of blood detaches muscles and ligaments.
She winces, whimpers. “Fuck. It feels like you’re chopping off my leg, Isla.”
