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The world spun and shifted as I looked up into that black shroud, into the face of the Boy whose hands were so hot against my skin, the warmth pulling me from the cold as though it was a magnet. I couldn’t see him, but it didn’t matter, I knew him. I knew exactly what he looked like.
I knew him without seeing.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered through the sobs as my skin pricked and pulled, Aeinya’s quick stitches moving from my wrist to the crook of my elbow. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head, hood and shroud shaking as he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to mine, the fabric still between us, still keeping him away from me.
He clicked twice, his hands warm against my cheeks, his thumbs moving softly against my skin. He didn’t move away, even as Aeinya tied the knot at the end stitch, the sound of more of my petticoats being torn echoing as she again wrapped my arm.
“That should stop it,” she whispered, but he still didn’t move. “Boy, you do know how to dress a wound, yes?”
He clicked once as yelling began echoing into our carriage. Only then did he pull away, turning toward the carriages and the voices as the flood of heat left. At least it had chased away much of the cold, if only for a moment. He nodded in answer as Aeinya’s name was yelled through the camp.
“That means yes,” I whispered, and she sighed, the yelling growing louder even as the world continued to spin.
“Good. I have to go…”
“I’ll be fine.” The words burned in my throat from screaming. I looked to Aeinya’s deep brown eyes, the wide expanse full of more questions than I had answers for. It wasn’t just that, though. She looked as though she knew everything. As though she always had.
“Later,” I whispered, that one word a scratch of a sound, she nodded before darting out of the wagon and into the cold winter air, into the pilgrimage that was already set to begin.
I couldn't even move, I lay there against the cushions, the smell of blood everywhere. My blood was everywhere.
It covered the front of my fancy dress, it streaked down the soft fur lining of my cloak, soaked into the cushions of the carriage and dripped between the floorboards. Everything continued to spin as I looked up to the Boy, his tall frame still leaning over me.
“It’s never going to stop.” I had meant to say more, but the words got lost in the haze, in the burn in my throat. I lay there, sagging against the seat as my arm heated and burned in both pain and fire.
Those same warm hands pressed against the bandages on my arm, the bandages that thankfully weren’t red, even if they did ache and throb. He held them there for a moment, that heat radiating over me before his hands shifted to my checks again. His warm hands were made of starlight as they pressed against me, as he leaned closer.
His breath was hot as it drifted through the shroud and over my face. Again, I tried to see through the fabric, to see him. But there was nothing there, just the shadow of a man that I trusted beyond anything. A man I loved.
I loved.
The thought pushed itself forward as his thumbs moved over my skin, his breath warm. I opened my mouth to say something, to tell him. I wasn’t sure what I would say. Before I could make any words come, he stepped back, his hands falling from me and breaking whatever spell I was under.
He clicked once, gesturing to the padded seat as he replaced his gloves and sat down opposite me.
‘Rest.’
I wanted to fight him, to find the words to tell him, but everything was too fuzzy, too hazy. I had simply lost too much blood. I hadn’t even laid down all the way before I had fallen asleep.
—
Batian didn’t return to our carriage. Not that day, and not the two days following.
I didn’t even see Aeinya again. The Queen’s message had been delivered loud and clear.
The Boy and I were brought bread and cheese twice a day, and left to relieve ourselves when the guards opened the doors, although they never left our sides. They were always there, dressed in indigo and gold as though they belonged to the Ramal’s army, but I recognized their faces. They were all those snakes, their eyes narrowed and leering. The worst was Silas, licked his lips as I was forced to lift my skirts to find relief, whose eyes never left mine in preparation to strike.
They didn’t need to strike one who was already bitten.
Twice a day we would rip more of my petticoats, wrapping the fabric around the wound that while hastily stitched was healing faster than it should. Perhaps it was the way the Boy would massage and hold the skin around the gash every time he changed the bandage, his bare hands unusually warm. Or perhaps it was because I still spent most of my days sleeping, the world slowly losing its rotating haze as I continued to shiver against the cold that would not relent. Whatever it may be, a few days later the open line of flesh had fused in an angry purple line.
It still throbbed, the pain lessening as the world drifted by through the window that I spent most of my time staring through. At each town we passed people rushed out with flags of purple and gold to greet the royal family and the future Queen. It was only then that I saw Batian, his golden cape gleaming atop a white horse as he flicked his hand in a glowing hello, his magic on display. I spent the days peering out the window, shivering at any gust of wind that found its way in the carriage; the nights I spent shivering against the seat of the carriage; the temperature growing colder as winter grew closer.
Other than that, we were alone. Silence stretched in the brief moments I was awake, nothing but the sound of horses and tack echoing through the carriage.
The Boy didn’t say a word.
