And with that, she helped me to the washroom, where Icould relieve myself. I desperately wanted to bathe, but I didn’t have the strength to do so, and returned to the settee, completely winded.
“You lost a lot of blood,” the woman said, handing me a plate of rice andlaulau,pork wrapped in taro leaves and cooked through. The salty aroma filled the room, and my stomach grumbled in response. As I took the plate, I couldn’t help but notice she rolled up her sleeves today. And now I could see so much more.
Burn scars.
They laced up her hands, arms, disappearing under her clothes until they reached her neck. Where did she get those? How did it spread from her hands to her neck?
“It will take a few days to get back to your normal strength.” She sat on the rocking chair across from me and ate her own food, her head tipped as she carefully prepared her bite. It was odd… Why didn’t she justlookat her food?
“The good news though is that your fever has broken, which means the wound is no longer infected.” She motioned to my food, inviting me to eat. But I wasn’t quite ready to eat, because this time, being fully conscious, I couldn’t stop looking at her eyes, trying to figure her out.
Each time I thought she was meeting my eyes, she seemed to be looking… beyond me? Above me? To the side of me? It was as if our eyes never quite locked.
Is she a witch?I’d heard witches had poor eyesight. Or maybe she was just ignoring me? It seemed beyond shyness at this point because she kept turning her head to see me.
I wanted to ask, but it seemed rather… rude.
The fact I could not categorize her frustrated me. I was used to command, control, order. And she did not fitinto any box.
Mother’s lessons came rushing back to me.Manners first.
“Thank you for helping me,” I said, and I meant it.
The salve she’d put on my wound before dinner eased the pain in my side, and I was able to relax. Just a little. It had a cooling effect and smelled like mint and aloe.
“This salve… did you make it?”
“I did.” She smiled, as if pleased with herself, suddenly rattling off herbs and natural remedies she’d used to make it. She finished with, “It also contains a good amount of cleansing alcohol in it to disinfect the wound.”
I eyed her suspiciously.
Her vast knowledge only confirmed what I’d figured out. “Are you a witch?”
Her face paled, and she opened her mouth twice to speak. And though she was looking at me, it seemed she wasn’t lookingdirectlyat me.
There was no doubt in my mind now. I frowned. “Don’t put any spells on me–”
“I don’t cast spells,” she snapped. “And if you want to label me as awitch,then you should label me correctly as anherb witch.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Herb witch. Witch. What difference does it make?”
“Plenty of difference.” The conversation obviously upset her.
She took her meal to finish in the kitchen alone. I sat back, chewing over her words. Maybe I’d struck a nerve… or maybe she simply didn’t like being accused of her true identity. Either way, the tension in the room lingered when she returned to collect my bowl.
I cleared my throat, the edge of our argument stillprickling at me, and opted for a change of subject. “Would I be able to bathe?”
“Not in the tub, especially with your wound still not healed,” she said. The tension in her expression softened, as if she’d already forgotten what she was angry at me for.
That look drove me crazy. Nobody should look at me like that, and yet…
I was getting used to it. Getting used to her.
Get cleaned up,I reprimanded myself. A good bath would make me feel more like myself, not the shell of a man who owned the wealthiest and most powerful whaling business in the Tempest Seas.
Saltwater, blood, and debris still soiled my hair. Sweat and healing cuts and scrapes made every inch of my skin feel sticky. Though we focused on the large gash, we could give a little more attention to the other wounds. A good bath would get everything off.
But Ginger was right. It would be a bad idea to submerge my wound in water.
