Bones of Faerie - Janni Lee Simner [4]
With each lash Father spoke quiet angry words about faerie fire and human death, about people starving and ungrateful children who didn't understand. My back throbbed. Three, I counted. Four. With the fifth lash a sob burst from my lips.
“Weak,” Father said as he tied his belt back in place. “You'd have died during the War, Liza. Remember that.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“Now pull yourself together and join me in the fields. No more delays.”
I listened as his deliberate steps crossed the house and the outside door shut firmly behind him. I let my knees give way and sank, trembling, to the floor, sweater falling back into place. More sobs came, along with a throbbing pain that grew with every breath. If Mom were here I might have run to her so that she could hold me and whisper some of the pain away. Mom didn't think me weak or slow. She didn't think that at fifteen I was too old to beg for comfort like a child.
How could she have left me without a word?
I staggered to my feet and headed back outside. I'd barely made it down the stairs when the pain slid up a notch and I fell to my knees again. I reached around and touched my back. My hand came away sticky with blood.
It was worse than usual. I tried to pull the wool away to feel the skin beneath, but wool and blood and skin stuck together. Redness shimmered before my eyes.
I felt something like old sandpaper against my cheek. Tallow licked my face. Her rough tongue hurt. I pushed her away. She mewed in protest.
I couldn't work like this. Father didn't believe in numbing pain—he kept none of Jayce's whiskey on hand. I forced myself to my feet and stumbled down the path toward Kate's door, Tallow at my heels. Matthew's grandmother didn't have whiskey, either, but she did have a cupboard full of teas and herbs. She'd have something for the pain. And she'd be home: her knees had grown too weak for her to help with the harvest.
I hesitated, then knocked and nudged the door open just as Kate called at me to enter. She sat on a stool in front of her loom, her hands in her lap as she stared at a half-finished bolt of reddish-brown cloth. Her long gray hair was twisted into a tidy bun. Across the room, a low fire burned in her fireplace.
“Hello, Liza.” She turned, smiling, to face me, but her smile tightened into a hard line as she looked me over. “What did he do this time?”
“It's nothing.” Even shaking my head hurt. Bad enough I'd angered Father; I shouldn't have come here and let Kate see. I never let anyone see, for all that Kate always seemed to know anyway. “I just wanted to borrow some tea.” My voice came out hoarser than I'd expected.
Kate stood, wincing at the weight on her knees. A wave of dizziness made me stagger. Kate laid her hand on my arm, leading me toward the couch. I sighed and sat down. Kate gently pulled the sweater away from my skin and over my head. She drew a sharp breath, ordered me to lie on my stomach, and examined my back with gentle, probing fingers, pausing each time I flinched. I tried to sit up, but she laid a firm hand on my shoulder.
She disappeared into the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a teakettle in one hand and a basket full of clay bottles and coarse bandages in the other. She placed the kettle on the fire, then knelt by my side and soaked a bandage with liquid. If her knees ached now, she gave no sign, saying only, “This might sting a little, but we have to clean you up before infection sets in.”
The liquid didn't sting—it burned. I tried not to cry out, but again couldn't help myself. Unlike Father, Kate said nothing, just ran her fingers through my hair, a little like Mom had done when I was small.
After the burning liquid came a thicker salve. Numbing coolness dulled the pain. Kate wrapped bandages over the salve. She warned me to keep the skin covered, then helped me sit up and offered me a clean sweater.