Page 12 of The Shape of Silence

Morning came gray and damp, the rain not fully gone but reduced now to an occasional dripping from the trees and the roof edge outside. She woke slowly, confused at first by the shape stretched near the fire before memory returned in a flash.

The man had not moved much during the night. Once or twice she had woken to hear him making some low, rough sound deep in his throat, but he had never truly roused. Now, in the pale morning light, his breathing sounded wrong to her ears—too fast, too uneven.

She pushed herself upright beneath the furs and sat still for a moment, watching him.

The fire had burned low overnight. Its weak glow painted one side of his face in dull gold while the other remained lost in shadow. Damp strands of dark hair clung to his brow and temples. Even from across the room she could see a flush high along his cheekbones whereas yesterday he’d been as white as a ghost.

Frowning, she crossed quietly to him and crouched beside him, tentatively reaching out her hand, laying the back of her fingers against his throat beneath the rough line of his jaw. His skin was burning hot.

She snatched her hand back at once, surprising herself by how startled she was for having touched him, for the feel of flesh beneath her hand that was not her own. After a moment, clamping her teeth, she tried again, pressing her palm lightly to his forehead the way the man once had when she’d been sick during a harsh winter long ago, the way her mother had done when she was a child.

The stranger’s skin was hot and damp beneath her hand.

She sat back on her heels uneasily.

The man had taught her enough over the years to recognize fever for what it was. Infection or bad blood, the man had explained. Sometimes a body fought through it. Sometimes it didn’t.

Her gaze dropped toward the dark stain high on his thigh. Bad blood, she guessed.

For several long moments she simply watched him while rainwater dripped steadily somewhere outside. Frankly, she didn’t want to deal with the wound. She didn’t want to cut away his clothes or touch him more than necessary or discover what lay beneath all the blood. But then her conscience wouldn’t allow her to ignore the heat radiating from him now.

With visible reluctance, she rose and crossed to the shelves near the wall.

The small crock of salve sat toward the back where she kept it. The man had taught her to make it years ago from rendered fat thickened with beeswax and steeped with crushed comfrey and yarrow. He had used it rarely and carefully, mostly on deep cuts or burns bad enough that honey alone would not do. She remembered the man explaining that honey kept rot out while the herbs encouraged flesh to knit itself closed again.

She approached the fire so that it sat between them as she crouched to stir it to life. She left the house with her buckets to fill with water, preparing but admittedly stalling as well, and poured one bucket into the water kettle on the spit over the fire. She gathered clean cloths, having few to spare, and finally took in hand the knife she’d found with the dead horse days ago.

She advanced cautiously, almost warily, and knelt beside him again. Up close he seemed impossibly large within the narrow space of the house. One broad shoulder nearly brushed the edge of the hearthstones where he lay. His chest rose and fell beneath soaked, dirt-streaked layers, the movement shallow but steady. Despite the fire that had burned evenly yesterday afternoon and evening before she’d banked it for the night, his clothes were still damp and likely weren’t helping his fever, or perhaps had contributed to it.

She hesitated before touching him, at first just laying her hand on his broad chest simply to verify that indeed his clothes were still damp and that, yes, she would need to remove them.

Then, grimacing slightly, she reached for the leather crossing his chest and began to unclasp the buckles, which were stiff with damp and grime. She had to use both hands to loosen them, but the straps pulled away easily enough. Beneath the leather he wore a wool shirt that proved harder still to remove.

She tugged unsuccessfully at first, frustrated by the dead weight of him and by the awkwardness of trying to undress an unconscious man who outweighed her by so much. Eventually she managed to free his left arm from the sleeve before it caught beneath his back entirely. Annoyed now, breathing hard again from effort, she planted one hand against his side and shoved hard enough to roll him slightly away from her. The movement dragged a rough sound from him, not quite waking but close enough that she froze instantly. His brow tightened briefly before the fever seemed to pull him back under again. She finished wrestling the garment free and then had to repeat the process with the undershirt he wore, this one damp with moisture and the heat of his body.

She sat back afterward, unexpectedly still, the sight of him unsettling her.

Scars crossed his chest and shoulders in pale, uneven lines, some thin and faded, others thicker and rougher as though badly healed. One entire side of his ribs had darkened into deep blue and black bruising ugly enough that she stared at it several moments before finally looking away. Even wounded and unconscious, he looked powerful in a way that made the small house seem suddenly smaller around him.

The reality of him—the sheer size of him—was as fascinating as it was intimidating.

The old man had grown spare in those last years, his body reduced slowly by time and hardship until she’d forgotten what strength truly looked like on another person. This man possessed it in abundance. There was something formidable in the breadth of him, in the thick muscle across his shoulders and chest, in the heaviness of his arms lying loose at his sides. The lines of him shifted subtly in the firelight with even the slightest movement from him—the hard contour of his stomach beneath bruised ribs, the powerful shape of his chest, dense strength running through him as plainly as the grain in split wood. He looked built for violence in the same unquestionable way wolves looked built for hunting.

Her gaze caught briefly on his hands resting near his waist—large hands, roughened and scarred, the knuckles split in places old and new alike. Even those looked capable of frightening force, though now they lay open and still beside him, at ease for the moment by fever and exhaustion.

Abruptly aware that she had been staring, she forced herself to look away and reached instead for the ruined clothing still clinging to his lower body.

The leather belt came free first, followed by the soaked, dirt- and blood-stiffened binding he must have wrapped around the wound, and then finally the pants beneath it. Removing those proved awkward enough. She had to tug and work the fabric down in stages—while more than once resisting the urge to simply cut the pants off him—lifting his hips on one side and then the other while trying very hard not to think about the staggering fact that she was undressing a grown man inside her house. The effort left her flushed and irritated by the time she finally dragged the pants clear of his legs and tossed them aside.

Beneath, he wore wool hose laced separately at the waist, the same as she’d worn for years, this life’s version of underwear, she’d always thought.

She paused and gulped down a swallow, her gaze flickering once toward the center of him before immediately darting away again. Heat rushed into her face so suddenly she was grateful no one was there to see it. She had no desire whatsoever to contend with that part of him and decided instantly she would leave the hose where it was if at all possible.

The wound made that less than ideal, but not impossible. It lay high on his thigh, closer to his hip than his knee, the blood having soaked deep into the wool along one side. Grimacing, she took up the knife again and cut a long opening through the hose rather than trying to remove it entirely, slicing from mid-thigh upward until she could peel the soaked fabric carefully back from the injury beneath while leaving the rest of him covered.

The sight of the wound roused a grimace in her. The gash was long and angry looking, the flesh around it swollen red. Dried blood crusted thickly along the side of his leg and into the coarse hair there, the skin hot beneath her fingers when she touched it. And still, at least a day since it had been inflicted, it seemed to ooze fresh blood as well.

She blew out a breath and got to work, in the same manner as she did all unpleasant things, with a mind to simply get it over with. She cleaned it slowly at first, dipping cloth into warm water and wiping away blood and dirt until all that was old and possibly dangerous was removed. More than once, his body tensed reflexively beneath her hand, and she jerked slightly in surprise, waiting until he went still again. Beneath her hands the muscle of his thigh felt dense and hard even in stillness, powerful in a way that kept her aware of how large he truly was.