“You’ve always been kind to me. Even when you didn’t have to be. In my world, that means a lot.” She flexes her shoulders as she moves and then hunches them again, going quiet.
“I…haven’t…been…that kind.”
“Sure you have. We’re still getting to know each other. And this next part is going to sting, because I think I need to sew the muscle together before I sew the skin over it.”
It sounds like she knows what she’s doing. I’m awash with gratitude that she’s tending to me. She found me, brought me back, and she’s going to help me get better. “You know what you’re doing?”
“I can sew a straighter stitch than anyone,” she says. “The scar will hardly show. Trust me. You ready?”
I grunt. “Do it before I think about it.”
White-hot pain sears up my leg and I let out a groan of agony. It goes on for far too long, and sweat beads on my skin. She tugs, and I feel the stitch tighten in place, and then her shoulders hunch. Vali is quiet for a long moment and then tilts her head back, breathing deep.
Is she…gagging?
“You…sick?”
“The muscle was just a bit much. Lots of blood.” Her voice sounds oddly tight. “Just gimme a moment and I’ll keep going.”
“You said you’d done this before.”
“I lied. You can beat my arse later.”
A rusty laugh barks out of me. I’m both surprised and yet not by her answer. The fact that she’s doing this for me tells me just how strong she is. Not many people would do what she has to help me heal. I’m suddenly grateful for her and her stubbornness. And yes, even her lies.
Vali takes a deep breath and then glances back at me from over her shoulder. “This next one’s gonna sting again…”
May Rhagos take me. I grit my teeth and wait.
Chapter
Nineteen
VALI
Ranan is an absolutely terrible patient. I actually start to long for when he was unconscious, because conscious Ranan is a bear. He’s in pain, that much is obvious. He wants to examine the stitches I’ve made, never mind that I’ve wrapped them in bandages soaked with more willow bark. Never mind that the nasty red lines on his flesh that spoke of infection have disappeared thanks to my tireless cleansing of his wound.
Never mind that I’m constantly making tea and soup for him and helping him piss in a pot so he doesn’t have to stand upright. I bathe him when he sweats, and I change the linens so he has something clean to sleep in every day.
And what do I get in return?
The worst, most uncomfortable peeling sunburn of my life, and an absolute grouch of a husband.
I do understand his frustration—I hate being sick. But by the gods, he’s cranky. The first few days were easier, because he was resting and unconscious for a lot of them. The healing herbs make him sleepy but also have done wonders for his leg. It’s swollen, a hot, fiery red ridge of flesh upraised around my stitch-work, but he can move all his toes (some better than others). It means I did something right with my stitches, and he mends a little more every day.
He mends so much that he gets cranky and lashes out at me when he hurts.
“I’m tired of this tea,” he grumps as I hand him another cup of willow bark.
“That’s the last of it.” It’s not, but he can just cope when I hand him the next cupful. It’s doing him good so he’s going to keep drinking it, I’ve decided. “Down it and I won’t make you any more.”
“Lies,” he grumbles, even as he tips the cup back and swigs its contents. “Deceit. You’re going to shove more at me the moment I turn around.”
“Is your leg less swollen? Then quit griping.” I turn back to the large beaten metal basin I’ve been using to soak the worst of the bloodied fabrics and wring them out. There’s a lot of work that goes into taking care of an ill person, and there’s no one else to do it but me. “You can beat my arse for lying when you’re back to yourself.”
“You keep bringing that up,” he says in a sulky voice. “I would almost think you’d enjoy it.”
I snort. “Or perhaps I’m just wise to your complaints.”
“There’s a healer on the flotilla. He’d have this taken care of quickly.”
I grit my teeth. “Great. Should we chop off your leg and send it away to him then?”
He’s silent at that. I lift up a heavy wad of fabric and wring it, but no matter how many times I soak it, the blood stains aren’t coming out. It breaks my heart to see such expensive fabric ruined, but there’s nothing to be done for it other than to keep soaking it and try again.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Tending to the laundry.” I turn and glance over my shoulder at him. I have him set up in fresh bedding, a mixture of ungodly expensive fabrics that are soft and won’t irritate his skin. His wound is wrapped, his leg propped up on a small, pricey-looking pillow that likely belongs on some rich queen’s bed. More pillows are behind his back, and two of his arms are crossed over his chest, the others flicking with impatience. “Do you need something? I can make more soup, but I’ll need to put on fresh water to boil. Or do you need help to pass water?” I straighten, rubbing my aching shoulders. “Or a bath, but again, I’ll need to draw more water. Or I can change your bedding—”
“You’re tired. Do you ever pause to rest?”
Rest sounds lovely…and very far down the list. “If I do, who’s going to take care of you?”
Ranan scowls. He hates being reminded that he’s a burden.
I turn back to the wet fabric in my hands.
“You look awful.”
That makes me pause. I turn to look at him. “If you’re trying to impress me with flattery, that’s not the best way to do it.”
He flushes, and one hand twitches. He rubs his neck. “I didn’t mean that. Just…you look weary. And you have a bad sunburn.”
Oh. “I got that rescuing you. It’s fine. It’ll fade soon enough.”
For a moment I think he’s not going to respond, but then he grunts. “I…appreciate it. You saving me. It wasn’t expected.”
His quiet words of appreciation leave me flustered. “Well, I don’t imagine the injury was expected, either. Perhaps next time you’ll get injured a bit closer to home, mmm?”
“I still appreciate you. I know this has been difficult.” He pauses. “I am not good at being useless.”
I chuckle. “Now that, I do understand.”
“Why are you washing the fabric? It seems like a great deal of work.”
Oh. I turn and face him, soaking the fabric in the basin again and then twisting and wringing it once more. My hands ache with the effort, but it doesn’t seem to be making much of a difference. The red, rusty stains remain on the delicate embroidery. “It’s very expensive cloth. I’d save it if I could. You could make a great deal of coin on a few squares of this.”
Ranan waves a hand, dismissing that. “There’s more of it. We can throw the stained cloth out.”
“It’s a waste.”
“Yes, but you’re tired.” He tilts his head, eyeing me. “Does no one ever take care of you, Vali?”