“Had to come out eventually,” Ira said. “Where’s my pack?”
Arthur’s head spun. “You’re lucky I thought to bring it, youmuppet! Why didn’t you ask before you pulled a knife out of your shoulder?”
Ira’s mouth twitched.
“It’s not funny! Where’s that water?”
“What water?”
Arthur pulled Ira’s pack toward him and dug through it. “Thewater. From Maud’s pool.”
“I told you, it won’t work.”
“It might.”
“It won’t.”
Arthur ignored him. The water had healed him; it would heal Ira. It had to heal Ira, because otherwise Arthur would have to patch him up, and Arthur was the worst possible person to have to do so.
He found the vial and uncorked it with shaking fingers.
“Arthur. Don’t waste it.”
Arthur tilted the vial, letting half the water splash onto Ira’s shoulder before Ira touched his wrist.
“Don’t waste it.”
Too late, Arthur wondered if he ought to have wiped the blood away first—removed Ira’s shirt—done somethingin preparation. He corked the vial.
Freya settled on Ira’s stomach, purring. Ira let a clawed hand rest in her fur. Arthur’s chest tightened: The hand was hardly a hand anymore. It was entirely covered in fur now, except for the palm, which had thickened and darkened into a metacarpal pad.
Arthur tore his eyes away and waited, clenching the vial of water. Blood seeped through Ira’s shirt.
“Why isn’t it working?” Arthur fought with the cork. “Maybe if I use the rest—”
Ira closed his eyes. “Don’t. It won’t work.”
The cork popped. Arthur almost dropped the vial; watersloshed onto the ground. He swore and spilled the rest over Ira’s wound.
“Arthur—”
Arthur had used up the last of it. Nothing.
“No—”
“I told you.”
“But—” Arthur’s voice pitched upward “—what do I do?”
“Needs cleaning first.”
Ira sat up, grimacing, and clawed at the toggles of his shirt.
“Don’t do that,” Arthur said. “I’ll cut it away.”
The worst injury he’d ever dealt with had been a broken arm, when Sasha had fallen from a tree in the churchyard. There had been no blood, though seeing Sasha’s arm at that angle had made his stomach turn, and of course Charlotte had taken care of it. She’d simply had him hand her things, tell Sasha stories to keep her calm, and hold the girl’s arm in place so she could splint it.
Arthur undid the toggles of Ira’s shirt, then sawed across its shoulder with a knife from Ira’s pack. The bloody fabric was at once damp and tacky. His head spun, but he clenched his jaw. Peeling the shirt away, he had to stop. The injury was neat, not torn or jagged, but that was little comfort with Ira’s blood welling beneath his fingers.
