Part 13 (2/2)
They followed the narrow rutted path for maybe half a mile, before they skirted back into the forest. They walked until the moon was dipping below the tops of the trees before he stopped them for good. Senna bent her knees and dropped to the ground, unconsciously cupping her injured hand in her good one.
Finian knelt beside her, bending over her hand, pulling it gently from her grasp with soothing, wordless sounds. After a moment, he looked up. ”'Tis poorly set.”
She bit her lower lip and scowled. ”What does that mean?”
”It means ye can leave it as 'tis and it will heal crooked, if at all. Or I can reset it.” He sat back on his heels and regarded her levelly.
”That doesn't sound pleasant. What do you know of such things?”
”Nay, 'tisn't pleasant.”
”What do you know of setting bones?” she prompted sharply.
He lifted a shoulder and let it fall. ”Ye learn many things, living as I have.”
”That is your answer?” She scowled. ”Pah, you probably know nothing of it.”
”I know more than ye.”
She sniffed.
He sat back. ”I suggest ye leave it, then. What does it matter if yer fingers cannot move as ye want them to, and are misshapen without need? Or mayhap oozing pus.”
He settled himself on a hummock beneath the branches of a nearby tree, watching her out of the corner of his eye.
She sat, stiff as a wagon spoke, glaring at a bush some ten paces off. Without her bright, engaging chatter, sleep layered quickly into his blood. Thick, heavy waves of it. He closed his eyes.
”Finian.” Her plaintive voice curled across the meadow.
”Aye?”
”I lost my comb.”
”Ah,” he replied slowly, unsure what response was called for.
”My hair is so tangled.”
There was quiet for a few moments. She played with the hem of her tunic.
”Finian,” her small voice called out again.
He raised his eyebrows, waiting.
”I need a bath.”
He rolled his eyes. ”My apologies. I forgot to carry yer tub with us.”
”I do not like how you Irish folk place your rivers and streams. They are most inconveniently arranged. In England, there is one every few yards, at the least.”
Unlike the one they'd crossed yesternight, he supposed. ”I'll be sure to take ye to one as soon as I can.”
She was quiet a moment. ”Promise?”
”Aye,” he replied gruffly. He closed his eyes.
A few moments pa.s.sed. ”Finian?”
”Senna?”
He opened his eyes and looked up. The leaves of the giant oak tree were dark above, and all around, stars dotted the sky.
”Did you say we were going to a town?”
”Aye.”
”Oh.” A bit of silence. ”Does that seem wise?”
”Not in the least. Is that how ye think I make decisions?”
”I stand corrected. But...a town?”
”I haven't a choice. I've to meet someone.”
”Oh.” She sniffed. ”Someone.” ”Someone.” Pause. ”I hope she's pretty.” Pause. ”I hope she's pretty.”
He closed his eyes. ”Hard to be prettier than ye.”
That brought another round of silence. 'Someone' had been rather a ma.s.sive understatement on his part. His contact, the spy Red, had taken a grave risk contacting The O'Fail, letting them know he had located the precious, lost dye manual. Whoever had the manual, and a dye witch, could make the weapons. Could blow up buildings. Could win a war.
At this point, Finian would be five days late, but five days or five years, he would still follow through. And he knew Red would wait. The payoff was enormous. The risks, including death, were negligible in the face of it.
”Finian.” Her soft voice lifted again. ”What were you doing in Rardove's prisons?”
He s.h.i.+fted his head against the gnarled bark, finding a more comfortable spot. ”Walking through a muddy river.”
”Oh. I suppose you do not mean the dampness of the cellars.”
”Nay.”
Another few moments ticked by.
”Finian?”
He dragged his eyes open. He'd been seconds from sleep. ”Aye?”
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