Thia had done that. And he’d struck her in the head.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, voice kind. He was clad in a billowing beige shirt and pair of brown trousers that reminded her distantly of a renaissance faire, a small knife hanging from his belt.
Thia struggled to sit up, to push past him and make for the exit, wincing as her tattered palm dug into the scratchy wool blanket beneath her. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and her other hand shot out to brace against the earthy wall.
“Easy there.” The boy put his arm around her. “You should stay down.” He helped her back onto the pillows. “My name’s Dessfar,” he said, when she didn’t respond. “But everyone calls me Dess. You can, too, if you want.”
She squinted up at him, taking in the ill-groomed boyishness of his ridiculous hair. “Where am I?” The world swam again. She lay back down.
“Haven,” he said. “What’s your name?”
She didn’t answer. She heard him scoot his chair closer to the bed.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “But don’t be scared.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You kidnapped me.”
He seemed genuinely offended. “Irescuedyou.”
“You hit me.”
He frowned. “What? No, I d—Oh. Your head? You did that to yourself.”
She must have appeared skeptical, because he laughed. It was a boisterous sound, infectious. Against her better judgement, her lips twitched into a smile.
“You rammed your head into the tree while you were flailing about.” He had the good grace to look sheepish. “I am sorry for scaring you.”
The embarrassed dip of his chin was earnest. Thia allowed her mind to cut through her fear, calming her with facts. She was in a bed. She wasn’t restrained. The boy—Dess—was taking care of her.
Maybe she really had been rescued. “I’m Thia,” she said, after a moment.
The door opened, and a woman entered, carrying a pail of water and stack of fabric. She was short, with strong shoulders and long black hair streaked with gray at her temples. Her eyes were small and wide-set, her cheeks round and bronze, and there was such warmth in her gaze that Thia found herself immediately relaxing.
“Hello, Thia,” the woman said. “I’m Sorscha.”
“You’re the one whose bed I’m in,” Thia realized. “Sorry about the blood.”
Sorscha smiled. “Not to worry. I’ve had many worse off than you in this house.”
Dess raised his brows as Thia’s words gave away the façade of unconsciousness she’d maintained while he’d carried her. She gave him a nonchalant shrug, and he grinned, as though pleased by her ruse.
Sorscha dipped a cloth into the pail and gently dabbed it against Thia’s face. Too surprised to protest, Thia let her.
“Witch blood is particularly hard to clean,” the woman told her. “You’ll need a proper bath. But I think we should try to get the taste out of your mouth first, don’t you?”
Thia eyed her wounded hands as Sorscha brushed the cloth over her chin. The cuts weren’t especially deep, though the left could benefit from stitches, and there was enough dirt and grime mingling in the dried blood to have her worrying about infection. Considering the nature of their clothes, she doubted they would have antibiotics.
“Give me those hands,” Sorscha commanded, reaching.
Thia let the woman take them, noting the careful way she pressed gently downward on the ruined flesh to avoid tearing the cut further or smearing the dirt in deeper. When she finished, she moved to grab a thinner piece of a material, which Thia suspected was this place’s best attempt at gauze.
“Wait.”
Sorscha paused, rounded brows raised in question.
“Do you have any alcohol? I need to sterilize the cuts.”
Her brow furrowed. “Sterilize?”
