The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Sixty-Four

Hawth hissed out between her teeth.

"I'm sorry," said the maid.

"It's fine," said Hawth, wincing as the unfamiliar maid reapplied the damp rag to her fresh stitches. It was neat work. Hawth had to wonder if stitching up wounds was part of the training to become a lady's maid.

The spikes that topped the gate leading to Citadel Square had woven red ribbons on her stomach, piercing the thick layers of her bodice and corset and tearing into the skin beneath. She didn't want to contemplate what might have happened without the protective cage of whalebone she'd been strapped into.

Hawth winced again, a squeaky cry of pain escaping her lips.

"Alright, that's enough," said Larst. He strode over to the side table and picked up the crystal decanter. "I'm not having you playing brave any more." He poured two glasses, full to the brim, and handed one to her.

With a shaking hand she took it, the red liquid spilling over the edge and drenching her hand before she could take a sip. It coated her tongue, washing away the taste of her own blood.

"Oh, no you don't," said Larst, touching his finger to the bottom of the glass and tipping it up, so that Hawth had to gulp to keep up. She could feel the sweet liquid coursing through her limbs, making her feel instantly better. And a little squiffy.

Larst took the glass from her as she gasped to catch her breath, and held out the second one before her.

"I can't," she said, coughing and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Seriously, no more."

"This isn't for drinking," he said, lifting her arm so that he could see her wound. With great delicacy, he tipped the glass, letting the contents dribble onto Hawth's stomach, the wine mixing with her blood and dripping onto the floorboards. Her muscles contracted at the touch of the liquid, but she managed not to cry out. "It'll stop the wound going bad," he said as the last drops fell.

"I'm not sure the wine steward would approve of this use of the royal cellars," said Hawth, laughing despite the tears streaming down her face.

"Why do you think I didn't send down for their best brandy?"

"Is that better?"

Larst shrugged, setting the glass aside. "Stronger, anyway." He cleared his throat. "We used to use gin back at the farm," he said. "When someone was hurt." He dropped his head, looking away. Even in the early morning light his face was still a haven for shadows. "The foreman kept a still lodged under the roof of the barn. It was strong enough to burn a hole through the rafters. You had to drink it fast or it'd take out your tongue."

The maid, sensing she was unwanted, dropped the blood-soaked rag in the bowl, and slipped away.

Hawth managed to straighten herself in her chair, and pulled down her borrowed shirt to cover the wound. It stuck wetly to her, the linen blooming a red flower. She tried very hard not to think of the last time she had seen an injury like that.

"I always thought it sounded romantic, growing up on a farm."

Larst laughed. But it was cold and without humour. "Perhaps," he said, still not looking at her. "If you have a name. But Brookedge Farm was just a place for people you didn't want anymore. Or rather, people you wanted to be forgotten." He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. "Not everyone has loving parents like you did." He snuck a glance at her. "Sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have said that."

"No, you shouldn't." She shifted in her chair again, trying to get comfortable.

"We should get a bandage on that."