Rosemary Thorne's Arc

Chapter 3 of 24

Damien slept an hour, maybe less. Rosemary sat in the reading chair and watched him from across the room. The blanket rose and fell on his back. Then his shoulder jerked. Something rolled under his shirt, from ribs to spine, like a fist pushing from the inside. He made a sound she had never heard a person make. "Cold," she said out loud, to remind herself. "Cold and weight." She went to the kitchen. The icebox held butter, half a jug of milk, and one tall bottle of blue lemonade she had kept for eleven nights in case he ever said yes. No ice. The block had melted by supper. She pressed her palm to the bottle. Cool, not cold. Not enough. She looked at the blanket she'd already given him. Soft, but light. She needed weight. She needed something that took the heat out of a body. She grabbed her satchel and dumped it on the table. Six books thudded out. Heavy ones. Herbals, a bound atlas, her grandmother's recipe ledger. She stacked them in her arms. Damien's back arched. He bit the blanket to keep quiet. Rosemary knelt beside him and laid the books along his spine, one by one. The atlas at his shoulders. The herbals at his ribs. The ledger at the small of his back. He gasped when the weight settled, then went still under it. "Don't move," she said. "I'm getting the cold." She ran to the garden door and unbolted it. The night air hit her face. She meant to fetch the lemonade bottle and press it to his neck, but a small shape was already crouched on her step. A gnome. Purple hat, white beard, boots too big for him. He had one of her cats tucked under his arm. The gray one. The cat looked resigned. "Put her down," Rosemary said. "What melts in the hand but mends the back?" the gnome asked. He tilted his head. "What's colder than a kept promise?" "I don't have time." She stepped past him. Behind her ivy-covered wall, at the north side of the cottage, was the stone well. Well water in autumn ran close to freezing. She hauled the bucket up hand over hand, water sloshing her skirt, and lugged it inside. She soaked a dish towel, wrung it, and folded it across the back of Damien's neck. He shuddered once. Then his breathing slowed. The thing under his skin quieted. The books held him down. The wet cloth held him cool. He turned his face toward her on the floor. His eyes were his own. "You didn't run," she said. "I couldn't," he said. "You put a library on me." She laughed before she could stop it. He almost smiled. Outside, the gnome was still on her step, still holding her cat. The door stood open behind her. She had forgotten to lock it.