Page 40 of The Verdant Cage
With the stove cleared, I begin to prepare tinctures with the herbs. First, I boil the lavender, its earthy, floral scent instantly relaxing me. I’m delighted to discover purple cornflower in a pile below some mossy basil I toss out, so I work on that next. While the chopped-up flowers distill, I make separate bundles of thyme, rosemary, parsley, sage, and celery leaves, hanging them upside down near a window to dry. As the kitchen begins to tidy and the soothing smells of processed food and spicy herbs fill the air, I find myself feeling centered.
I even begin to hum.
Once the tinctures are prepared, I grab the boiled lavender to strain its water into one of the bottles of flaxseed soap. Lavender is the standard scent in the Valley, the one we’re all taught to make in home arts class. I’m over the sink, pouring the lavender water, when a waft of the sage I’ve hung upside down reaches my nose. A memory grabs me, so strong it’s like my mother has walked into the room: the special blend of sage and peppermint soap she washed our hair with on Saturday nights, singing us Valley songs as she did. I’d smelled traces of the soap in Jonas’s room just the other day. There’s enough mint and yellow-tipped sage to make a tincture just like Mom’s, so I prepare that, as well.
Afternoon is creeping into night when I finally have the kitchen in order. The canned vegetables are lined as neat as checkers inside the cupboard, the dishes and surfaces are sparkling, the grains tucked away. Medicines are prepared and labeled, herbs drying in neat bundles. A pot of corn chowder is bubbling on the stove, and the sweet, rich scents of garlic, thyme, onions, and corn perfume the kitchen. I’ve made simple oat biscuits with flour, egg, water, and shaved goat cheese rind—those are baking in the oven.
While dinner cooks, I dust the living room furniture, shelves, and windowsills, then I sweep and wash the floors. When done, finally, I collapse onto the couch. The bathroom and laundry room are both sorely in need of a scrubbing, and I’m sure there are stacks and stacks of clothes that need washing, but at the moment, all I can see is the pristine living area and kitchen.
Despite all my grief, my fear, I feel at peace.
25
It lasts a whole thirty seconds before Jarek charges through the front door.
His shirt is ripped and burnt-looking above the elbow, and the flash of raw, exposed muscle I catch through the fabric makes my pulse jump. He pauses, glares around the kitchen, and drops into a chair. “You will treat my arm.”
“I’m not allowed to practice my former trade,” I say, slipping an uncharacteristic challenge into my voice.
“You will treat my arm,” he roars.
I’d prefer to let him suffer. Pity that I’m a healer, and to leave a patient in such a condition would betray my most dearly held beliefs. I’m already moving toward the stove. I bring another pot to boil, pull scissors, bandages, and salve from the cupboard, and turn to cut away the rest of his sleeve. “What happened?”
He grabs my hands, crushing them. I look up, startled. His pupils are dilated. He’s obviously in great pain. “No questions,” he says hoarsely.
I yank my hands free. “I can treat you better if I know what I’m looking at. Is it a burn? A cut?”
He grunts.
I bite my tongue and finish slicing away the shirt, exposing a wound unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The skin in his upper arm is blistering in a circle the size of my fist. At its center is a small puncture. I inspect the back of the arm. My breath grows thick. The trauma goes all the way out the other side, like someone shoved a thin rod straight through him.
Only Guardians are allowed weapons. They have swords, and bows and arrows.
Neither of those made this injury.
My brain is whirring. One bizarre weapon that leaves holes in bodies, three victims: my mother, the Potters’ son, and now Jarek. I still can’t explain the particularly gruesome nature of Peter’s passing, but the pattern’s there, written in torn flesh.
Which means Jarek knows who the killer is! Did he get this injury trying to stop them?
“Is there anything inside the wound?” I ask, hoping my voice doesn’t betray my realization.
Jarek had been still as I examined him, but at my question, his jaw clenches. “Your mother would have this treated by now.”
His words are a punch to my gut. People in agony sometimes lash out when you treat them. I’m used to that, but the pain Jarek just inflicted was intentional—he meant for me to be ashamed of my curiosity. In a flash of awareness, I think I understand something about what it would be like to have this man as a father. I feel a burst of cold sorrow on Gryphon’s behalf.
Because Jarek’s wound isn’t actively bleeding, there’s time to run over to my old house and obtain materials for his comfort, powerful herbs that numb flesh and muscle.
I’m not going to do that.
Instead, I return to the stove with unhurried steps and drop a spoon into the now-boiling water. Then I remove the pot from the heat and open the oven a crack so the oat biscuits stay warm but don’t burn. While the spoon sterilizes, I slowly, thoroughly, wash my hands. Continuing my leisurely pace, I use tongs to remove the molten instrument, setting it on a towel next to Jarek.
Icouldtell him what I’m about to do will hurt.
Instead, I walk over and jab my pointer finger as far into the hole as I can to make sure there’s nothing inside. He makes an involuntary cry before biting short the noise. I almost smile. As expected, I don’t encounter anything except the suctioning murk of rent flesh. I retract my finger and use the tongs to pick up the spoon. The metal is still unbearably hot.
I maintain eye contact as I insert the spoon’s searing handle into Jarek’s wound, not flinching at the smell of freshly cooked meat. If the wound wasn’t entirely cauterized before, it is now.
This is for Wendy’s finger.
