Page 27 of The Dawn Chorus
‘I do.’ I smiled thinly. ‘But no ... I don’t wish them all dead. I’ve a softer way to make sure they won’t trouble us.’
‘I will not ask.’ Warden glanced at me. ‘There is no food. Forgive me. I will see to it that you have a meal by dawn.’
A nod was all I gave him.
I had asked him about getting more for the harlies, but he was powerless in the matter. The next consignment of food would arrive on the day of the Bicentenary. What little remained here was rationed among the red-jackets, with scraps tossed into the Rookery. Michael knew an amaurotic in the Residence of Suzerain who was sometimes able to slip him leftovers, which he shared with me. Not enough to make a difference to the harlies.
‘Let me stitch the wound.’ I took off my coat. ‘You’re bleeding all over the show.’
Warden studied my face. ‘You wish to help me.’
‘I won’t offer again.’
‘Are you skilled at needlework, Paige?’
‘It won’t be tidy,’ I said, ‘but given where the wound is, I doubt you’d do it any better.’
‘A sound point.’ He nodded to the cabinet. ‘There is a sewing box in there. And salt.’
It sat on the top shelf. Inside were all the instruments I needed and more: a heavy pair of scissors, a stitching awl, bodkins and thimbles, spools of thread, surgical needles in a velvet-lined case.
A crack sounded right above the tower, followed by a full-throated rumble that seemed to shake the foundations of the residence. I longed to breathe in the sweetness of a summer storm again. I opened the nearest window and savoured the feel of warm rain on my face.
‘That seems unwise,’ Warden stated.
‘I love thunderstorms.’
I waited to see if he would order me to close it. All he did was take another drink of wine.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you won’t get hit by lightning.’
The fire wavered as I moved the sewing box to the table. I almost asked Warden to take his shirt off before I remembered the scars he likely wanted to keep hidden. And the prohibition of flesh-treachery.
Warden leaned forward a little. I peeled a scrap of his shirt away. Beneath it was a deep and filthy gash, which leaked slow-pouring ectoplasm.
‘Gloves will make me too clumsy for this,’ I said, businesslike. ‘I’ll … try not to touch you.’
Warden gave the barest nod.
Ectoplasm behaved like molten glass. Left for too long, it would set. This was still fresh enough to wipe away with a cloth and salt water. I got on with that first, trying not to look too hard at the skin around the gash. I would show an ounce of respect for his privacy, even if he had destroyed mine by sifting through my memories. I would be better.
When the wound was as clean as I could get it, I set about drawing it shut. Though it looked like satin, his skin was tough to pierce; I had to exert a lot of force to get the needle through it, enough to make my arms tremble. It had to be hurting him, but he never made a sound.
In an effort to keep my balance, I forgot myself. I pressed a hand to the middle of his back.
He tensed under my touch. At once, I remembered myself – but it was too late, it was already done. I could feel his strong heartbeat, the muscle coursing under his skin.
It wasn’t flesh-treachery. Yet he held himself now as if I had scalded him.
‘Does it really disgust you that much?’ I huffed a small laugh. ‘Even through your shirt?’
‘It is not disgust.’
‘What, then?’
No answer. I shook my head and pushed the needle into his skin a little harder than necessary.
Nick had taught me to do this. He believed everyone should know how to treat their own wounds. I settled into a rhythm, into a trance, soothed by the heaviness of the storm.