Page 66 of Bone Year

She gestures weakly at the bandages wrapped around the worst parts of her wing.

“And these binding wraps soaked in something that smells sour slow it down but don’t stop it.”

“And if none of that works?”

“They’re talking about cutting the whole wing off before the corruption reaches my core.” She sniffles but doesn’t cry.

Her fingers clutch the stuffed fox.

“I’ve only been flying for four years. I was turned when I was little, but it took me forever to learn to fly. I was starting to love it, and now...”

She swallows hard. Her eyes drift to the window again.

“Do you know what it’s like to dream about flying every night and then wake up and remember you might never do it again?”

I think about my father. About the clinic. About holding a scalpel and watching my hands shake because I know what these hands have done.

“I know what it’s like to dream about something you’ve lost.”

She turns her head to look at me.

“Your brother, does he visit?” I ask.

The softness vanishes. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because he blames himself, and my parents blame him. Everyone’s so busy being angry and guilty that no one actually comes to see me.” She picks at the fox’s worn ear. “I’ve been here three weeks, and the only people who talk to me are healers who poke at my wing and tell me to stay positive.”

I lean back in the chair, keeping my voice light. “I’m not going to poke at your wing and tell you to stay positive.”

She looks up. “What are you going to do then?”

“Check your bandages, make sure nothing needs changing, and then sit here and talk to you like a normal person instead of a patient.” I shrug. “If you want.”

She stares at me for a long moment. I watch the walls she’s built waver slightly.

“Fine.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “But if you make the pity face, I’m biting you.”

“Fair enough.” I reach for the medical belt at my waist. “Let’s take a closer look at this wing.”

I unwrap the bandages carefully, taking my time. The wound looks exactly as terrible up close as it did from across the room. The black, rotted lines pulse faintly, like they have their own heartbeat. I clean around the edges with the sanitizing liquid from my belt, trying not to notice how Nella flinches every time the cloth touches the raw parts.

“Sorry,” I murmur.

“It’s fine.” She grits her teeth. “I’m used to it.”

No fourteen-year-old should be used to this.

I rewrap the wound with fresh binding cloth from my supplies, making sure it’s snug but not too tight. When I’m done, I sit back and study her. She’s watching me with those sharp amber eyes, waiting for me to make the pity face or say something stupid about staying positive.

“Can I ask you something about being a vampire?”

She blinks, clearly not expecting that. “Uh. Sure.”

“The blood thing.” I feel stupid even asking, but I genuinely don’t know. “How does it work? Do you have to bite humans? Other bloodlines?”

Nella snorts. “Gods no. I mean, some vampires do. The old traditionalists in the shadowlands still hunt, but that’s considered barbaric by most standards now.” She shifts against her pillows, settling in like she’s happy to talk about something other than her wing for once. “Ashwell provides synthetic blood. It’s made in the labs here and tastes like watered-down garbage, but it keeps us alive. Some vampires prefer animal blood if they can get it. Tastes better than synthetic but not as good as the real thing.”