Lena Marsh's Arc

Chapter 19 of 24

Lena woke in her own bed. The ceiling of the upper floor of her shop was above her, the beams she knew by heart. Sunlight cut across the quilt. Her father's room was quiet through the wall. She heard him breathing. He was still alive. The silver needle sat on the table beside her, clean and waiting. She could not lift her hand to reach it. Her arm felt like wet rope. Nell was in the chair by the bed. His head was down against the mattress, one hand loose around hers. The fox slept at his feet, green tail curled over its nose. He had not shaved. Dried blood crusted his sleeve where a claw had opened his ribs. She moved her fingers. He came up at once. "You're awake," he said. "How long?" "Day and a night." She tried to sit up. He put a hand on her shoulder and eased her back down. He brought a cup to her mouth. She drank. "The square," she said. "Cleared. Forge is stitched. Linny's with him." "My father." "Still here. Waiting for you." She looked at the needle. Her hand shook when she lifted it. She could not have threaded a button. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. The shirt was folded on the chest at the foot of the bed, half-done, the linen pale in the light. Nell watched her count the hours in her head. "Lena," he said. "What." "Marry me." She turned her face toward him. He did not look away. "Not Hild," he said. "Me." "Nell." "I have the shack. I have the fox. I have an axe and two hands. That's all." He stopped. "It isn't much." "It's enough." He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them the green was steady, not glowing, just his. "Whatever happens with him," he said. "Whatever he decides. If he takes the shop. If he sends the writ again. Your father. Linny. The boy at the shack. I'll feed them. I'll keep them warm. You don't have to finish the shirt alone." "You'd carry all of us." "Yes." She worked her fingers into his. Her grip was weak. His was not. "Then yes," she said. He bent his forehead to hers. The fox lifted its head, watched them, put its chin back down. "Sleep," he said. "I'll be here." "The needle—" "Tomorrow. Your hands need to come back." She let her eyes close. The needle waited on the table. Her father breathed through the wall. Nell's thumb moved once across her knuckles and stopped there. She slept. She would wake with strength enough to weave, or she would not. But she would not wake alone, and neither would anyone she loved.