A chill moves through me as her focus begins to fade again.
"Now they look away. The only reason I’m still here is because they remember him. Because they’re afraid of what it would say about them if they turned me out." Her mouth trembles. "But memory rots. And when they stop remembering—"
Her breath falters. A dry, painful cough breaks through her, and she sinks back, spent by the effort of speaking. Her eyes close, lashes trembling as I resume the slow, careful motion at her wrists.
"You’ll live," I say, though my voice betrays me. "Ilinca needs you. Rest now. You're safe."
The words feel fragile, as though they might break apart if I press them too far. Her breathing steadies, just slightly, the fever pulling her back under. Still, her last words cling to the air like smoke, refusing to settle. I sit there with her, hands warm against her skin, listening to thehouse creak and the wind stir outside, reminding myself that this is only illness speaking.
At last, her lids sink shut. The tension leaves her face, softened by exhaustion. I wait until her breathing settles into a deep, uneven rhythm before rising.
In the kitchen, I move quietly, tending to small things. The cup is rinsed, the table wiped, the herbs returned to my pouch—each motion careful, measured. My hands work on their own while my thoughts drift.
The wildling’s house?
Elena’s voice returns, lighter than Neaga’s, easier to dismiss. Illness breeds fear. People speak harshly when they are afraid, yes—but words are not knives, and people are not monsters. This village is not cruel. They would not harm a widowed woman already bent by sickness. They would not harm a child. We look after our own.
I am reaching for another clean cloth when a sound cuts through the quiet.
A sob—ragged, close.
I turn in a single motion, heart lurching as my hands find the curtain.
Little Ilinca is awake.
She sits upright on her narrow bed, shoulders hunched, clutching the blanket to her chest. Her dark hair sticks out in uneven tangles, as if it has never quite learned to lie flat. Her eyes are wide and shining, too big for her face, fixed on the sheets beneath her.
The linen is soaked. Blood has spread across it in dark, uneven patches, seeping through the folds where she must have shifted in her sleep. It stains her thighs, her nightshift, her shaking hands where she has tried to contain it.
For a moment she looks like a wounded animal.
Her breath comes in short, broken bursts. A thin, helpless gasp escapes her throat, as if she expects more blood to come, as if she cannot understand why it will not stop.
Relief leaves me in a slow breath.
"Oh," I whisper.
I cross to her quickly and kneel, careful not to startle her further. She flinches anyway, eyes darting from the stain to my face and backagain, searching for sense, for blame, for something to hold responsible for what her body has done. Her fingers hover over the blood, unsure whether touching it will make it worse.
A small, panicked whimper slips from her mouth.
She thinks she is dying.
I reach out and gently smooth her tangled hair back from her face.
"It’s all right," I murmur, forcing warmth into my voice so she can see there is nothing to fear. "Truly. It’s all right."
She stares at me as if I have said something impossible.
Her body still trembles.
"This is…" I pause, searching for something bright enough to cut through the fear. "This is wonderful."
Her brow knits. Her gaze flicks down to the blood, then back to me, confusion and dread tangled together.
"You’ve become a woman," a smile touches my lips. "That’s all."
I open my mouth to say more—what Mama once told me, what all girls are told—when my gaze drifts past her, to the small window set high in the wall.
