Heart of Iron - Ekaterina Sedia [73]
“Then, I tried climbing the walls of the well. It was slow at first, but soon enough I could ascend twenty feet before having to climb back down. Not long after I began jumping in my well. It was a full year before I was strong enough to get out of the well, millstones and all.”
I held my breath. “And then . . . ”
He nodded. “Yes. I could run and jump and climb with these stones, easy as any man without them. But when I reached safety and had them taken off me . . . that first moment, I took one step and I thought I could fly! The barest movement made the world fall away from under me. It was like a dream, only for weeks I couldn’t take a step without soaring to the clouds. The war had started by then, and no one was paying much attention. As soon as I could walk, I went to Macao—I jumped from boat to boat, to tell you the truth, and when I couldn’t, I just jumped bouncing off water.”
“Nonsense.”
He put his long-fingered hand over his chest. “I swear to you, it is all true. I sailed for home on the first boat taking English families back.”
“This . . . ” I gulped one breath after another, my heart pounding. “But you make it sound as if it was natural. However, I am certain that no other person would succeed the way you did—they would’ve died in that well.”
He inclined his head, agreeing. “It allowed me to discover that I had such an ability—a confluence of an inborn talent and circumstance had brought it forth, do you understand? And either of them is nothing without the other—this is what is so extraordinary about it. Don’t you agree?”
“I do,” I said, and only then noticed a small burnt hole in his jacket, just below his right shoulder. The hole was almost invisible as it was obscured by a crust of dried blood. “My God, you’re injured.”
He followed my gaze, and probed the hole with his fingers, thoughtful and flinching. “Must have been that shot we heard. Who would be mad enough to shoot in such narrow confines? A ricochet is almost a certainty.”
“They did get you,” I pointed out. “Let me get my scissors and some thread—I can at least try to dig out the bullet and close the wound.”
“There’s no need.”
I stared at his visage, just a shade paler than usual. “Of course there is. You’re still mortal. Aren’t you?”
He grinned. “I assume so. Very well, you’ve made your case.”
I suspected he enjoyed being ministered to, as he took off his jacket and undid the collar of his shirt. His skin looked sallow, smeared with thick dry blood. The bullet entry stared at me like a solitary black eye, and I wished I had a more suitable tool than a pair of scissors. I probed the wound carefully, and felt a subtle scratch of metal under metal almost immediately. Some bone must’ve stopped it. I sighed with relief.
Jack closed his eyes and looked paler, but made no sound as I dipped the scissor tips into the wound, pushing them next to the bullet. I pivoted the scissors—easy as turning a key—and a stained black metal cylinder slipped out into my hand. One end was flattened where it had encountered Jack’s bone.
“That’s it,” I said. “You want stitches?”
He shook his head as he touched the wound and the single drop of blood that had squeezed out of it. “It seems pretty well cauterized, and I do heal well on my own. Thank you, and I promise to ask for the stitches if they are at any point necessary.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. I did not feel particularly useful, or helpful; I suddenly worried about Jack. The more I thought about how close he had come to being seriously wounded, the more I panicked. What if he were to be killed or gravely injured? As selfish as I felt when I thought that way, a part of me keened in a high, childlike voice, What would happen to me then?
Jack seemed pensive all day, quiet, and I did not think it was due to his injury. Rather it seemed as if he regretted opening up to me so much. I worked on my never-ending letter, which had