Page 88 of Alchemised
The necrothrall woman was in Helena’s room with a bowl of water and a cloth in hand.
“Clean her up,” he said, going to the window, standing still as a statue while the necrothrall led Helena to sit on the edge of the bed and began dabbing at the gravel and blood.
The necrothrall’s fingers were cold, and she smelled vaguely of raw meat left out too long. Helena flinched away, but every time she shrank back, the woman followed until Helena was trapped against the bedpost. She started shaking.
“Stop,” Ferron finally said, his voice tense.
Helena froze and so did the necrothrall, stepping back as Ferron came over.
Helena stared at his shoes. They were so perfectly polished, they shone.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Lots of things were wrong. More things than Helena’s brain could presently remember.
“I don’t like when people are dead,” she said in a small voice.
He sighed and sat down beside her, taking the cloth away from the necrothrall.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said in a tense voice. He took her by the shoulders, turning her towards him.
She knew he wouldn’t. He only hurt her on certain days, and this wasn’t one of them, so she sat very still.
Moving slowly, he started along her shoulder, removing the bits of white gravel and washing the wounds before his fingers brushed across her skin. She felt a tingle of warmth as the skin knit together, regenerating into delicate new tissue. He worked across her shoulders and up her neck, to her throbbing lip.
His lips were pressed into a flat line, his expression clinical and intent.
When he finished, his attention turned to her hands. Her wrists were aching, the skin hot and taut.
He turned one hand over. Her palm was scraped raw, pocked with bits of gravel.
It took longer to fix her hands and wrists, and even when the cuts were gone, they still hurt. He kept going over them, making her move all her fingers.
He finally sat back and looked away. “Did he do—anything else to you?”
She shook her head.
He exhaled slowly. He was staring across the room. “I’m required to spend the next several days in the city. I think it’s best that you stay in your room until I return.”
Helena said nothing. Eventually he stood and left. She heard the door bolt for the first time.
She sat staring blankly at the wall, not sure what she felt. Her mind only seemed to work in fragments.
She was dirty.
She went and stood under the water, letting it stream hot down her face and over her shoulders.
She still felt teeth sinking into her skin, the way the flesh tore under the pressure. The places were still oversensitive. She wanted to stick her fingers inside them and tear it all out.
She found a cloth. She scrubbed and scrubbed until all her skin was so raw the water hurt.
There was a white flannel nightgown draped over the chair, and a cup of tisane by the bed. She recognised the scent of chamomile, but when she sipped it, it was bitter enough to make her tongue curdle.
Laudanum.
She drank all of it before sinking into a deep, empty sleep.
THE MENTAL FOG WAS GONE the next morning.
