Aria Blackwing's Arc

Chapter 7 of 24

Aria tied off the last strip of linen around Derek's arm. The bleeding had stopped. The salve smelled of yarrow and pine. She smoothed the edge of the bandage flat with her thumb and did not move her hand away. She looked up at him. He was watching her already. His blue eyes were tired, ringed dark from the fight, but steady on her face. She did not speak. She wanted to say something about the knife, and the door, and how she had stood inside counting his footsteps. None of the words fit. Derek did not speak either. He turned his good hand and covered hers on his arm. His palm was rough and warm. He held it there. That was all. Aria felt the fire behind her, the owl asleep in its basket, the whole cabin quiet around them. She understood, without a word, that he had heard everything she had not said. She let out a long breath she had been holding since he stepped back through the door. Then a thin cry came from outside. It was small and sharp, not the growl from before. A bird. Close to the porch. It cried again, weaker. Aria pulled her hand back. Derek was already reaching for his boots. "Stay," she said. "Your arm." "I'm coming." She did not argue. She lifted the bar and opened the door a hand's width. The night air was cold and smelled of wet bark. She stepped onto the porch with the lantern. The cry came from under the low bench by the rail. Aria knelt. A baby raven crouched in the dust, wing bent wrong, dark down puffed against the cold. One bright eye tracked the lantern. Its beak opened for another cry and made no sound this time. "Oh," Aria said. "Oh, little one." She cupped her hands around it. It weighed almost nothing. She could feel the fast drum of its heart through the down. She held it against her chest and stood. Derek was in the doorway, knife in his good hand, watching the tree line. Nothing moved out there. Whatever had knocked the nest down was gone, or waiting. "Inside," he said. She carried the raven in. Derek dropped the bar behind her. Aria set the bird in a shallow basket by the hearth, away from the owl. She warmed a spoonful of soft porridge, mashed seed and softened grain, and touched a bead of it to the raven's beak. It swallowed. It swallowed again. Its eye stayed on her. She looked up at Derek. He was already tearing a fresh strip of linen for the wing. "Two patients," she said. "Three," he said, and lifted his bandaged arm. She almost smiled. Then the raven cried again, and she bent back to work. The sanctuary had grown by one small, broken thing, and the woods outside were not done with them yet.