30th of Nema

There was still blood under my fingernails.

There had been more. My palms had been scarlet. Shiny and scarlet. Someone had washed them, scrubbed my knuckles hard because there had been so much of it...

Arramy's head lolling on my shoulder. My fingers in his bloodied hair, holding him close to keep him from being jostled. The rumble of wooden wheels on pavement, the rush of wind whistling through woven-cane wagon rails. One of the guards turning to look down at us from the driver's seat as he whipped the horses into a lather. The sound of a man's voice shouting, "Almost there, Miss, almost there! Just hang on!"

Mrs. Burre climbing up into the wagon, her lean face drawn as she presses two fingers to Arramy's throat beneath his jaw.

The chef and the groundskeeper coming out to meet us in the delivery bay. The cold emptiness of my arms when they drag Arramy's unresisting body off of me and onto the stretcher. The crack of the swinging kitchen doors slamming open. Mrs. Burre barking orders. Something shattering as the kitchen girls begin sweeping everything off the preparation table. Mrs. Burre cutting away Arramy's vest and pants with quick, efficient slices of a knife. Arramy lying still and pale, like a statue. Blood on the floor, blood on the table, blood on Mrs. Burre's apron... Blood on my skirt and soaked through my blouse, sticky on my skin...

The snap of an ember in the fireplace yanked me back into reality. I blinked and brought my knees up to my chest, sending the bath water lapping gently around me. Then my eyes drifted shut and I was lost again:

The plink of metal on glass. The smell of warm honey, chopped garlic. Witchbitter astringent. Mrs. Burre bending over Arramy, her hand moving up and down, up and down, on and on, a needle glinting in the light of the mirrored lantern above her. Chef boiling water for the fifth time. Someone mopping up the trail of blood on the floor. Mrs. Burre standing back and announcing that there was nothing more she could do.

Two men in matching black jackets carrying Arramy's stretcher onto the servants' lift. The rattle of the accordion gate closing behind them, followed by the hum of the lift engine as it begins climbing. The gleam of Arramy's hair against dark metal walls, disappearing from view.

The kitchen staff quietly sweeping up the vegetables they had been chopping before we arrived, picking up shards of the mixing bowl that had fallen, wiping the table down with bleach and lavender water, gathering the bloodied towels and wads of gauze Mrs. Burre had used to stem the worst of the bleeding. Changing their uniforms and aprons. Chef dumping a pot of ruined sauce down the scullery drain.

Someone noticing me sitting on the floor in the corner. A kitchen girl running to find Mrs. Burre.

Mrs. Burre sitting down next to me, her back to the wall too. Silence. Then: "You did well. The guardsmen tell me you never gave up... I won't lie. I've seen soldiers die from less. But he's a fighter... and he has a chance because of you. Now. What say we get you cleaned up a bit?"

I opened my eyes. I was in warm water up to my chin, my hair was washed and combed free of clay and grime, my skin scrubbed shiny. There was a fire dancing merrily in the grate, chasing the night chill from the room. If I pulled on the bell ribbon, a maid would come popping in. I was safe. I wasn't running anymore. Nothing and no one was hunting me.

That only made it worse. A sob rolled through me, but my lungs wouldn't draw air. I bent over my bare knees, curling around the ache, my mouth contorting on a silent cry. I left him and then I nearly lost him. If I had followed the guards instead of scrambling over that log; if I hadn't seen his hand; if I had found him even a few minutes later, Arramy would have died. Because of me. Because of my father's binder.

He still might. Mrs. Burre wasn't holding out any promises. She had gotten the bullet out of him, but the infection was still there, and the blood loss would make him weak.

With a strangled groan I surged to my feet and climbed out of the tub. Sleep was out of the question. I needed to do something, or I was going to go mad.

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