Lyra Fernbrook's Arc

Chapter 12 of 18

Lyra kept her palms on the yarrow until her fingers cramped. Dorian's breath came, then skipped, then came again. She lifted one hand to check the pack. Blood soaked through the moss in a fresh dark bloom. The yarrow was losing. She pressed harder and felt the pulse under her thumb stutter. She knew this kind of bleeding. She had seen it in deer the wolves left alive. Yarrow could not close a wound this deep. Not here. Not with what she had left in her satchel. She climbed to the crown rail and shouted down into the trees. She called for anyone on the ridge, anyone in the grove, anyone at all. Her voice cracked and came back to her off the empty boards. No answer moved in the branches. The birds were gone and the grove had shut its mouth. She hit the rail once with her fist and turned back to him. "Dorian, listen." She knelt and tore a long strip from the hem of her skirt. She emptied the satchel into her lap. Every sprig she had. She packed the deepest puncture until the moss stood proud of his skin, then bound the strip around his chest and pulled it tight under his arm. He made a small sound. His hand found her wrist. "I have to move you," she said. "I can't stitch you here. My haven is too far. The stone one. But the cobbled house at the edge of the grove is close. I can work there." She hooked her arms under his shoulders and dragged. His boots scraped the stair. She counted each step aloud so she would not stop. He went heavier with every landing. On the last flight his head lolled against her collarbone and his hand slid off her arm. "Stay with me," she said. "Stay. Please." His lips moved against her neck. She caught the words on the third try. Not so loud. You'll wear out your voice. She laughed once, a wet sound, and kept pulling. She crossed the open ground under the tower with him half in her arms and half on the grass. The door of the herbal house opened under her shoulder. She got him onto the long table by the window and cut the shirt away. The bleeding had slowed under the pack but not stopped. She threaded a curved needle by the lamp and set her teeth. She stitched the deep wound first, close and even, the way her grandmother had shown her on split hide. She stitched the second. She stitched the third. She washed the seams with a tincture from a small bottle on the shelf and packed fresh yarrow over the line. Then she sat with her hand flat on his chest and hummed the mending tune until his breath found its rhythm and stayed there. By the time the lamp guttered, Dorian was asleep and warm. Alive. The grove outside was quiet.