Arms full of supplies, she had to kick open the door. It swung open, banging against the wall.
Before it had even opened all the way, Struan was on his feet, back against the opposite wall, one fist clenched and half raised, ready for action. His wounded arm hung more limply at his side, as if it hurt too much to use it.
Una just had time to take in the grim, determined expression on his face before it was swept away by surprise.
“Una,” he managed, and itdidfeel strange hearing her name from his lips. “What are ye doing?”
She set down the bowl of water—warmer than she’d requested, but it would cool soon enough—along with cloths, bandages, a tub of savory-smelling green paste, and, of course, the needle and thread.
“Let me see yer arm,” she demanded brusquely.
He pursed his lips. “It’s fine.”
Una gave a tight smile. “Actually, it isn’t. Ye see that reddish tinge around the edges of the cut flesh? That’s inflammation. Inflammation turns to infection, with stinking pus and pain and necrosis soon enough. The infection spreads to the blood. Soon, the only cure will be to cut off the arm. That’ll not be easy, considering how close that cut is to ye shoulder. The infection might already have spread to yer torso by the time we amputate.And then, of course, everybody knows it’s lights out. Ever seen a man die of poisoned blood?”
There was a little silence after her speech. Struan cleared his throat, rolling his shoulders. Was it a trick of the light, or was there a pale, worried look in his eyes?
“Fine,” he spat, at last. “Ye can wash out the cut if ye think it’ll do any good.”
That was a victory. Una gestured for him to come and sit back on his straw bed, and she brought the candle closer. The light was faint, but she’d need all the light she could get.
He sat very still while she washed out the wound. There was dirt in it, and it was a lengthy process. He didn’t wince or fidget, but now and then, when she probed out a particularly deep bit of dirt or scraped out another tiny piece of stone, a muscle would jump in his jaw. The door stood open behind them, and Una was aware that if anybody came to peer in at them, this would not look good for her. She kept her eyes on Struan’s muscled shoulder and concentrated on her work, refusing to allow herself to glance up at his face.
“That’s as clean as it’ll get,” she remarked at last. “Now for the stitches. This may sting a wee bit.”
“I’ll be fine.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “If ye say so.”
She got to work, and instead of the mildly reassuring sound of water sloshing and a wet cloth sliding across skin, the nasty sound of a needle and thread pulling through flesh crept in instead.
“Ye are good at that,” Struan said, quite unexpectedly. She glanced up, not able to stop herself, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring blankly at the wall opposite.
“Sewing up skin? It’s no different from sewing a torn seam,” she responded at last.
He snorted. “Ye and I both know that’s a lie. It’s like saying that killing a wee rabbit for the pot is the same as murdering a human in cold blood. There are similarities, but only a fool believes it’s the same.”
“If ye say so.”
“So, then. If these aren’t transferable skills from yer work as a seamstress, how did ye come to learn how to treat a wound? The nuns, I suppose?”
It would have been easier to say that the nuns taught her. In fact, Una was not quite sure why she didn’t jump on that explanation immediately.
“No, before,” she found herself saying. “I learned it at Keep Dickson, as a matter of fact.”
Struan glanced sharply at her. She felt his eyes on her like a weight.
“Our Keep?” he responded at last.
She nodded tightly. The cut was almost sewn up now. In four or five days, it would be healed up enough for her to snip the stitches with a sharp pair of scissors and draw out the thread. Only a thin scar would be left.
“Many orphans were brought from my village,” she found herself saying, the words stuttering out of her mouth almost without her knowledge. “And from all the villages after. I had to be kept alive because of my name, but the others didn’t have the same protection. There were beatings, punishments… I’ve lost track of all the cruelties I saw in that place. Some of the bairns died of their wounds. Nobody cared. Their bodies were thrown to the dogs or to the pigs if the dogs were too full. Pigs will eat anything, ye know. Ever heard a pig crunch through human bone?”
She could hear her own voice getting more and more angry, pitching higher. She tied off the end of the thread and used her knife to cut it.
“Aye,” Struan said, so softly she almost didn’t hear him. “Aye, I do know what it sounds like.”
Una glanced up at him, eyes widening. She found that her mouth was dry. Clearing her throat, she looked away.
