He skids to a halt in front of us. Fox leans heavily on my shoulder as he clambers into the saddle. I waste no time before swinging myself up behind him.
The Baron is howling with fury. ‘Stop them! Don’t let them get away!’
Cedar rears on his hind legs, tosses his head, then bolts through the crowd and out of the square. I cling on for dearlife, my arms wrapped tightly round Fox. He’s clutching his wound as if attempting to hold his torn skin together. My nose fills with the metallic tang of blood. I burrow my face into Fox’s back as we ride, and squeeze my eyes shut.
When I open them again, the winding streets of Wellwall have been replaced by towering trees. Moonlight leaks through the branches, illuminating the path ahead. I flinch as something darts across it, but it’s only Scout – a streak of rust-orange fur.
‘That’s far enough,’ I say, pulling gently on the reins. ‘They won’t find us here.’
Cedar slows to a halt, and I slide off his back. Fox lets out a low groan as his feet hit the ground, and I thrust an arm out to steady him.
His slightly unfocused gaze comes to rest on my collarbone. ‘You’re hurt.’
I blink, incredulous. ‘Never mindme,’ I say, using the sleeve of my shirt to blot hastily at the thin gash left by Garrick’s knife. ‘I think your wound takes precedence here. Tell me what to do.’
‘Satchel,’ he murmurs.
I nod, then unfasten the bag from the saddle with trembling fingers and empty the contents on to the forest floor. Fox leans back against a tree, panting through clenched teeth.
I yank off my glove and drop to my knees, illuminating the pile of medical supplies with the glow from my brandmark.
Fox’s voice is gravelly. ‘I need essence of fenhallow.’
I rifle through the various vials, pots and pouches. ‘Come on, comeon,’ I mutter. Then, mercifully, ‘Got it!’ I call, almost tripping in my haste to reach him.
‘I need to assess the damage,’ he grits out. ‘Could you …’
In the pale-gold light I watch his throat bob as he swallows. I nod, understanding. I pocket the bottle of fenhallow and take a deep breath as I begin to unbutton his tattered shirt, which is so stained with blood it looks as though he’s dressed in Ignitia colours. I fumble clumsily over every button before carefully easing the fabric off Fox’s shoulders. At my command, rivulets of water begin to stream down his chest, and I press my lips tightly together as we take in the full extent of the mutilated mess.
‘Now the fenhallow.’
I remember Fox telling me about this particular tincture. It’s used to clean wounds. It doesn’t damage the tissue in the same way liquor would, but it burns just as badly. I hesitate, but already the blood has begun to pour afresh.
‘Wait,’ Fox says as I pull out the stopper. He tears a thick piece of bark from the tree and bites down on it hard before nodding.
The moment the fenhallow makes contact with his skin, Fox screams. He grips a branch for support, the agonized sounds muffled by the bark between his teeth. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes and track their way through the flecks of blood on his face.
My hands are shaking so badly I drop the bottle. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m –’
Fox doubles over, staggering away through the trees.
‘Don’t,’ I implore as I follow him deeper into the forest. ‘Come back, Fox –’
He turns sharply. Somewhere through the red-hot haze of agony, it seems to register: I just said his name.
He spits out the bark and sags against a tree, his entire body racked with shudders as the pain reaches a crescendo. I smooth his sweat-soaked hair back from his brow. The wound on his torso continues to bleed, showing no sign of stopping.
‘Bandages,’ he croaks. ‘I’ll need to bind it.’
‘It’s no good,’ I protest. ‘They won’t stop the blood.’ I wring my hands helplessly. ‘Surely there must besomethingin that pile of potions –’ Then I stop abruptly and my eyes widen with realization. ‘Lachrymortis,’ I breathe.
Before Fox can utter a word I’m darting back through the trees towards Cedar and Scout and the pile of supplies. When I return, clutched in my hand is a small glass vial.
Fox shakes his head. ‘No.’
‘Yes.You said in the inn that it can heal any wound.’
Each word is an effort. ‘I also … said … that I possess … the last remaining … vials. I’m saving them … for something … worse.’
