“Clean. Keep them from getting infected. This one especially.” She pointed to the deepest slice on her left palm. “And if you have anything for stitches….”
“Oh!” Sorscha’s lips parted in surprise. “You’re a healer.”
Thia huffed a laugh. “Um…” She was a hospital intern with a backpack full of textbooks. “I don’t have magic,” she told Sorscha, thinking of Callista and the witches.
Sorscha smiled. “Few do.” She clicked her fingers. “Dess-díeran,get the girl what she requires.”
Dess, whose gaze had been darting curiously between them, nodded and stood, the tips of his chaotic yellow hair nearly reaching the wooden ceiling. “Yes, ma,” he said, and she lovingly shooed him out the door with a wave of her hands.
“Your son?” Thia asked, though they looked nothing alike. Sorscha was dark and golden, her eyes capped by a smooth monolid, whereas Dess, much like herself, was as pasty as the inside of an apple.
She shook her head, the warmth in her face dimming slightly. “In a way. His parents are dead. I’ve done what I can for him.”
Thia’s heart twinged with a familiar ache. “I’m sorry,” she said. “So are mine.”
Sorscha pursed her lips sympathetically. “How?”
“Car crash,” she said. “I was just a baby.”
Sorscha’s response was not the kindly one Thia anticipated. “Car? What does this mean?”
“Oh.” She sighed. “Like a carriage,” she tried, and Sorscha seemed to understand. “It was an accident.”
“You poor child.” The woman rested a light hand on her ankle where it lay under the blanket. “I’m so sorry.”
Thia was spared having to answer when the door creaked, and Dess reappeared, carrying red wine, a bowl, needle, and thread. “Supper’s up,” he commented, handing the items to Sorscha.
She looked at Thia. “Are you hungry?”
Thia’s stomach growled in response. The older woman smiled at Dess. “Tell them to set some aside, and we will be there shortly.” Dess dipped his head in acquiescence and left.
Sorscha poured wine into the bowl and held it out to Thia. She submerged her hands in one after the other, biting her lip against the sting. She had only ever stitched suture pads under supervision, and she’d been able to use both of her hands. She fumbled, dizziness blurring her vision as she tried to thread the needle, and Sorscha took it from her. “Let me.” She smiled. “How different is skin to cloth?”
Thia didn’t know, but she assumed the woman’s familiarity with a needle and thread would be as good, if not better than her own largely theoretical knowledge. Sure enough, the work went quickly, and the stitching was even. Sorscha wrapped her hand in a bandage and declared the job done. “Now,” the woman said, beckoning her up. “Come with me.”
SIX
SORSCHA LED HER TO A CREEK,ICE-COLD AND SHALLOW. IT MADEfor a difficult washing process, as it barely reached Thia’s knees. She crouched to scoop handfuls of the frigid liquid, tossing it over herself as best she could. Sorscha stood guard on the shore and waited with fresh clothes when she emerged. A dress, Thia realized, as the woman handed over the fabric, cream-colored and thin. But that was only the first layer; next was a similar garment in deep brown, though sturdier and somewhat scratchy. Thia pulled them over her head one at a time, the fabric clinging a little too tightly over her large hips and a little too loosely over her small chest and narrow shoulders. It was also several inches too long. But she was grateful for the cleanliness and the boots that she exchanged for her ruined slippers.
With the creek breaking the canopy of foliage, Thia could just make out a few stars glinting down. Hours must have passed while she was unconscious. She wondered if they were of the same constellations she was so accustomed to gazing up at in Kansas, or if this was some strange new galaxy. With the roll of navy clouds, it was impossible to tell.
“Are you coming, love?” Sorscha asked from just inside the tree line. She had a torch in hand, casting her face in an orange glow.
Thia cleared her throat, dislodging a painful lump. “Sorry.” She scrambled to catch up, following Sorscha back to the hut. But when they reached it, the woman didn’t slow. Instead, she led them around and into a clearing. Dozens of similar shelters lined its edges, a bonfire crackling in the center. Surrounding the fire, people perched on stones and logs in clusters, laughing and talking with what appeared to be hunks of meat in hand. It was hard to tell at a glance, but Thia estimated their number to be over fifty at least.
“What is this place?” she asked Sorscha, as they picked through the crowd. The huts were too shoddy to be permanent, and the blindfold she’d been given after Dess had found her warned of secrecy. “Dess called it ‘Haven.’”
“It is that,” Sorscha replied.
“For who?”
Sorscha glanced over at her with a somber expression. “Those whom the Tyrant has displaced.”
“The Tyrant?”
Sorscha frowned. “You must have traveled far to be so unaware of our perilous circumstances.”
Thia shrugged awkwardly. “I’m from Kansas. I’m told it’s in another realm.”
