Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Merc turns to him with a glower. “No, there was an ‘almost’ in there. And now, we’re in here, we’re going to buy whatever she needs.”
As the shop owner sizes up Merc, he becomes noticeably more agitated. “What do you want. And do be hurried about it.”
That’s when I hear the muffled sound. It’s somewhere off in the rear of the little building, and when the shopkeeper wrenches around to the noise, I have sudden paranoia he’s holding someone captive.
I step around Merc. “I need to make a poultice of purpa, turtine, and roships, with a binding of local honey.”
The man rubs a spot over his brow. “I don’t know what you’re referring to—” As the sound repeats, he glances over his shoulder again. “I’m closed—”
“Here. This.” I walk down the aisle, and point to jars on the second shelf. “This. And…”
I continue down the way—
The shopkeeper steps in front of me, those palms of his rubbing together, his eyes darting about. “I’m sorry, I’m closed—”
Merc materializes beside him, and puts his sword hand onto the other man’s shoulder like an anvil. “And I said, you’re going to give her what she needs. You don’t want us in here for much longer, right? Because you’re closed? So how ’bout you set us on our way with what she requires—and lock the door behind us so you don’t get inconvenienced by paying customers again.”
Unspoken is the last part of his message: And if you don’t comply, I will take what I want and ruin the rest.
I want to tell Merc to back off, but I can’t escape the condition of my wound. “I’m very sorry about this, but I’m injured and I desperately need to treat my—”
The sound repeats. Like it’s timed.
Narrowing my eyes, I watch the sweat bead over the shopkeeper’s upper lip. But then he shuffles away and goes to the counter, where there’s a stack of folded bags. His restless hands jerk and tremble as he takes three—and then he has to double back to get a metal scoop because he forgets it.
“Are you staying at the pub then,” he says.
“Aye,” Merc answers.
“Then you get the honey there.”
In the back of my mind, I start to count as the shopkeeper goes to one of the jars I pointed out. As he takes the glass container down, he fumbles it, and I jump forward to help. The weight hits my palms and I duck his eyes just in time, focusing on the white line around his mouth—
The sound comes again as we straighten, and I don’t let go of what connects us. “Take me to your wife.”
The shopkeeper freezes.
Even though it’s the last thing I want to do, I have to help. “Please, I can hear her. I can … help her. Maybe.”
His breathing changes, as if he’s been forcing his composure and it finally breaks. He begins to take short little puffs of pure fear.
“It’s her first.”
“Okay.” I glance down at the jar that links us, the glass as invisible as the threads of fate that tie strangers and intimates alike. “Give me the jar, let go. And then you’re going to take me to your wife. The time’s already here.”
Outside, there’s a holler from the storm, and the very rafters of the store groan. And then the soft moan of agony repeats, a woman bringing new life into a hard world, walking the line of death all by herself.
The shop owner looks warily toward Merc—
I put the jar aside and step between them. “Don’t worry about him. It’ll just be me. He’ll stand guard, but he won’t come into her birthing room.”
When there’s still a hesitation, I lower my voice. “This is not the first time I’ve attended the bed.”
“How … many, for you.”
Hide. “Too many to count.”
The counting of moments resumes in my head, and abruptly, I’ve had it with the men. I push them both out of my way, and I follow my sister’s laboring voice behind the counter, through a door, and into a living space that is the opposite of the farrier’s. Here, everything is tidy, especially with the herb station. All its tools, as well as the plants, leaves, and roots that are in mid-preparation, stand at the ready in a neat order, no doubt for the healer who is in labor.
No dirty plates, rotting food, and scared children in the kitchen area.
There is a single door in the far corner that is cracked open.
Going over, I place my hand on the gray wood. “My name is Sorrel. May I come in?”
There’s a weak groan, and I close my eyes briefly. I truly do not have the energy for more loss, more pain, more—
I push open the door. “I’m here to help you.”
Forty-Three
Into Battle I Go.
The beautiful woman on the bed is black of hair, dark of skin, and thin of limb. Her face is drawn in pain, and she has braced herself into a sitting position, her upper body curved around her big belly. A white shift is covering her, and she has sweated through it from her laboring. White blankets and sheets drape her shoulders and waist, and I’ll bet she has bloodied what’s under her already. Her weary eyes lift to meet mine, and the fear in them is something I sense, even though I do not look into them.