Turbinio

Filipendula Roots

In a rush, your eyes shone pathetically. Doctor? No one had ever said anything like that to you. Did a successful British jockey consider you a doctor? Or rather, the best doctor he'd ever met? You couldn't help but think he was joking, so you laughed in disbelief.

''Why are you laughing? I'm talking seriously.''

''Are you?'' This time, the laughter spaced. ''Me, a doctor? You are more optimistic than I thought, Diego Brando.''

''What makes you think you're not a doctor? I've met renowned surgeons who would never compare to you, Miss (Y/N). Although... maybe you have the instinct for healing.''

You shook your head, briefly forgetting how sore you were.

''Instinct for healing?''

''Well... There is no ignorance or superstition in you. I see your natural inclination. You aren't easily nauseated, nor are you afraid of blood or death. You have the peculiar combination of empathy and ruthlessness that a doctor needs to have.''

Diego's hand was still firm on your wrist, looking straight into your eyes. In this exchange of glances, you understood what he meant. You understood his capacity to see your talent; the knowledge of blood and bone, earth and healing, the secret workings of the chambers of the heart.

Diego lifted his head quickly, turning to the kitten in your wagon and letting go of your wrist. You yawned involuntarily, your jaw creaking at the sight of Diego rising to do something you couldn't make out near your wagon. Perhaps he was simply organizing and analyzing the things you had bought.

Distracted in your thoughts, you yawned again, now sure the herbs were taking effect. You rested a hand on your aching shoulder, starting to massage the area; your thumb moving slowly up the tendons of your neck as you surveyed the tall figure of the man before you. He had lit a couple of candles to better light the place, one at each end of the counter, and shadows flickered on the wooden walls and in Diego's golden hair as the flames flickered with a sudden, icy draft.

''I know... a lot of things about the corpse.'' You mumbled, delirious, not knowing exactly why. ''I just don't know why everyone wants it...''

Diego, who was carefully keeping the things you had bought on the shelves of your wagon, stopped and looked at you. A stern look that, if you were sane, would have killed you.

''Why do you want this corpse, Diego? You'll all end up dying for this... Aren't you satisfied with fifty million? You threaten me, try to scare me, interrogate me... But I still can't get mad at you. I can't help but worry just as I couldn't help but bleed when that knife cut me. All this... because of a damn corpse...''

Silent for some time, a murmur came out of Diego's tense throat, like a soft croak. He shook his head, walking over and kneeling in front of you. Your faces disturbingly close again, his fingers sliding across your jaw, like when he was about to tenderly choke you.

Then, the hand that was on your jaw slid from your neck to your arm smoothly and slowly, as if he wanted to make the sensation of touching your skin eternal. Finally, he stopped when he touched your hand and raised it to his lips, kissing the lightly bloodstained fingers. This was the first time anyone had kissed your hand; you never came close to being a madam or a proper lady to deserve such treatment.

''You need a shower, and some rest. There is a hotel near here, I will pay for your accommodation.''

You didn't say anything, your eyes looking absently at his shoulder. You couldn't look him in the eyes, because you knew he would see the pathetic dilation of your pupils. You tried not to be shaken by his voice trembling in your ear. You forced your mind to hold steady even though your body was completely weak. Concentrated on breathing in the astringency of the herbs, calming your heartbeat until you couldn't feel it anymore. Diego's hand touched your shoulder, helping you to stand up, and you felt his breath shiver down your neck.