Authors: Laurel Wanrow
chapter TWENTY
Miriam ran across
the sickroom to the cot where Henry lay, but Annmar stumbled to a halt. Henry wasn’t really vomiting. Blood oozed from his mouth, which Mr. White wiped away, gently holding the boy’s shoulder as his body shuddered.
Mrs. Pemberton knelt at his bedside, holding Henry’s hand and hugging her arm around another boy about Henry’s age—his friend from the orphanage who was also giving up his wages to help, Annmar realized. Mary Clare’s mother whispered, “There, there, son. Relax. You’re not alone.”
But it wasn’t helping. Pain racked Henry’s pale face.
Miriam dropped a hand to his forehead. Her gaze met Mr. White’s. The surgeon shook his head. Miriam stroked Henry’s cheek, and for a few moments he lay still. Then he gave a small cry, and his body jerked. Something tumbled from his hand—something glowing blue. It remained luminated for a second, then several blue threads flowed from it to the stone floor…and disappeared into the slate. The other boy ducked and picked up the doodem. The light was gone, and the doodem turned white. Annmar’s gaze flew up to Henry…
He lay still, and this time he didn’t move again.
Annmar gasped and closed her eyes. She saw the playful boy handing her a sweet biscuit, sweeping the workshop, scrambling over the Harvester, plying the oilcan nozzle to the joints and loving every minute learning about the machines.
No, not Henry.
Tears trailed down Annmar’s cheeks, and as her hand clutched the rough fabric of her trousers, Miriam’s quiet words of consolation echoed around the room:
internal damage, blood loss
and
unbearable pain, little hope of recovery
.
Annmar lifted an arm to wipe her face and realized she still carried her sketchbook.
Maybe it wasn’t too late.
She snatched the pencil when the book fell open. She flipped back a few pages, to her drawing of Henry.
She could change it. Strengthen the lines, show their movement, show the blond boy moving, alive.
Pencil to the page with one hand, she touched her collarbone and closed her eyes. She needed her blue, the threads, the fungus. They sprang to her call, lighting brighter than before, strong and warm. She drew—
“
No
!” Miriam’s low cry startled Annmar.
Her eyes flew open. Miriam’s gaze was on the sketchbook—
A blue glow lit the page, the lines of the drawing twisting and winding, vaguely human, but trying to connect to each other in bizarre ways, like a contortionist at a circus. Annmar yanked her pencil away, but the luminated lines continued wriggling into fans, shells, and for a moment the circle she’d drawn for Henry’s head domed like an open umbrella.
Miriam snatched the pencil, grasped Annmar’s elbow and steered her out of the room and into the now empty library, snapping the door shut behind them.
“What is that?” Miriam demanded.
“My-my sketch of Henry.”
“Don’t touch it.” Miriam took the book and laid it on a table. She held Annmar by the shoulders. “You can’t bring him back. He’s gone, dead. Healing doesn’t work like that. Knacks don’t work like that, and you must not try. Do you understand me?
Learn and let live
.”
Miriam was very nearly shaking her. Annmar nodded, partly from the motion, but to make Miriam stop. She pushed off the older woman’s hands and, out of habit, reached for her sketchbook to calm her nerves.
Before she had her hand on it, Miriam snatched the book and ripped out the drawing of Henry. For a second, the torn edges glowed blue. Then the drawing went dark, reverting to ordinary pencil lines.
What is happening?
Annmar had no idea, but neither did she want Miriam to damage her other drawings. She grabbed the book, clutched it to her chest and stumbled back.
“I’m sorry,” Miriam whispered. “The drawing is dangerous. I have to take it to Constance. Moving drawings are…not normal.”
Moving
. She only said moving. She hadn’t seen the luminated blue lines. Or the glowing ripped edge. It wasn’t
normal
. Only Mary Clare, Daeryn and Rivley knew she saw blue. And the way Miriam was looking at her with her wide pale eyes, Annmar didn’t want to add to her fear.
I’m not normal
. She edged back. She’d just find Mary Clare…
Miriam grabbed her arm. “We don’t change life and death. We can’t. If you try, he’ll never be the same boy. He’d be some
thing
else.”
“I-I suppose.” Yes, that made sense. But she didn’t want it to.
She wanted Henry alive again.
“He would not be the same,” Miriam said again. “His internal injuries were too extensive to be healed. We tried. Three of us. Three different methods. But not this way.”
Annmar sucked a breath and nodded. “I understand. He’d be damaged somehow. I won’t try to draw him again, it wouldn’t be right.” She added what she knew Miriam wanted to hear: “I promise I won’t.”
Miriam released her breath. “He’s gone, at peace, poor child. You need to leave him that way.” She squeezed her arm and let her go.
But why had his drawing glowed? Her gaze trailed to the plain paper Miriam held at her side.
The healer thrust it behind her. “I can’t let you have it.”
It’s not blue anymore,
Annmar wanted to say. But she didn’t. It didn’t matter. She had her sketchbook and wanted to get away. Annmar backed toward the door and waved vaguely. “Very well. I’m going to my room.” She spun on her heel and opened the door, giving Miriam no chance to stop her.
She trotted from under the porch covering, past the few people lingering in the light of the lanterns and started running across the dark farmyard. It was easy in trousers and boots, easier than she’d ever imagined, and in a burst of energy, she veered from the bunkhouse. She didn’t want to be alone with everything going wrong.
She wanted Daeryn, his arms around her, wanted to bury her face in his musky chest.
Annmar ran toward the fields, barely able to make out the crops under the light of the rising gibbous moon. A woman shouted at her, but she didn’t stop. Only a few green Luci-viewers dotted the dark hillsides. Annmar cupped a hand to her mouth. The growers who quit, the accident—
Something brushed at her ankle. Annmar jerked aside. The road trailed a faint line between the rough fields. She took it, running uphill. Daeryn would protect her. James said he was at the Harvester. She’d find it and find him.
A bird flew at her, hooting. She batted it away, but it swooped closer, so close feathers swiped her. She ducked and ran, the bird, an owl, following overhead. Several more shouts rang out, and green lights converged on her. Annmar sped up.
At the top of a hill, when she was sorely out of breath, a wolf appeared from nowhere, blocking the road. Annmar darted sideways, and so did the wolf, leaping halfway up and growling.
Annmar fell back, glaring at it.
The wolf sniffed at her before it straightened. Its body fur disappeared, and the crown fluffed into curls. Annmar started to avert her gaze from the feminine body.
Lord forbid, I’m staying. High time I just get used to naked ’cambires.
She forced her eyes to meet Jac’s yellow-green ones.
“Stop,” Jac snapped, “before your distressed scent draws every gobbler in Wellspring.”
“Wh-where is Daeryn?” she gasped. Heavens, she sounded like a baby. Annmar shoved past Jac and stormed over the hilltop, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.
Behind her, Jac ordered, “Molly, follow us. Make sure nothing approaches her.”
Oh…damn. Annmar cast a look around. On both sides, shadows moved, in field upon field of toppled vegetation stretching to the horizon and the night sky. Any movement might be a gobbler, or just a plant. She couldn’t tell. She wrapped her arms around herself, clutching the sketchbook tighter, and broke into a trot. A vicious beast might bite her before she got to Daeryn and safety.
Jac sprinted alongside. Their gazes met, and the wolf girl pointed. “He’s that way.”
“Thanks,” Annmar mumbled.
In a few more paces, Jac asked, “What happened?”
“Hen…” Annmar swallowed. “Henry died.”
“Lands,” she hissed.
They came to a crossroad. Jac took her arm and guided her to the left. A fence bordered the field, with the Harvester beyond it. Jac led the way along it, giving a shout for Daeryn.
Four Luci-viewers bobbed through the muddy field on the far side of the Harvester, but no answer came before they reached a part of the fence that overlapped.
Jac pulled it open. “I’ll wait with you until—”
An animal leaped over the fence.
Annmar fell into Jac, ready to scream until she realized the growing figure was Daeryn. Like Henry’s drawing, his body shifted and changed, but thankfully into all the right shapes, into the Daeryn she knew.
Jac poked a finger to his chest. “I’m doing this for her. Not that it even begins to repay the healing she’s done for us. I expect you to safeguard her until she’s back at the house. Understand?” She pushed Annmar through the opening. Daeryn followed, closing it behind them.
Jac disappeared, and though Annmar couldn’t see the wolf, she called, “Thanks, Jac.”
An answering yip sounded off to the right.
“Good move,” Daeryn whispered. “Jac’s under a lot of pressure tonight.”
“I…I—” Annmar flung herself into his arms, not wanting to cry, but the tears came anyway.
Daeryn’s arms tightened around her. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” he kept asking.
But he rubbed his chin over her head like he always did, and he smelled so good, like he always did, and even though he was naked, Annmar pressed herself to him and bawled. She cried like she’d never allowed herself to cry after Mother died. She cried for Henry, for the weird blue lines that were some stinking fungus, not a special magic that worked every time you needed it to, and for the horrible shapes in Henry’s drawing that scared Miriam.
“Annmar,” Daeryn said, nearly growling. “You have to tell me why you’re crying.”
“Henry,” she sobbed. “Died.”
Daeryn froze in place. “No,” he muttered and gripped her tighter. “Great Creator, that’s horrible.”
“I tried,” she mumbled into his warm skin. “I did what I always do. For Henry, for Mary Beth, for Master Brightwell and Rivley.”
Daeryn gently pushed her back so he could look at her. “Rivley’s here and working, so I know he’s healed, but how are the others?”
She wiped her face. “I don’t know about the others. Henry was smashed up inside, Miriam said. I had no idea he was so damaged. When he—I tried again to fix—”
“No,” Daeryn said sharply. “Stop it, Annmar.”
She sucked back her breath at his harsh tone.
“You can’t do everything. What you can do is special, but you can’t think like you’re a Creator and all powerful, healing people who are destined to die.” He frowned. “Where’s Mary Clare? Have you talked to her? Or Miz Gere?”
“No. Just Miriam.”
And you.
“And what did she say?”
Daeryn kept his arm around her, holding her close, his gaze never leaving her face while she told him. A few more sobs escaped during the parts about Henry dropping his doodem, the distorting lines and Miriam ripping Henry’s drawing from her sketchbook.
“There, that’s the answer then, from a healer who knows. She’s right. You talk to Mary Clare and she’ll agree. There was nothing else you could do.”
Had there been nothing? If she’d learned about her fungal heritage before tonight, and that her Knack could be worked in some different way through it, then maybe she could have saved Henry. Annmar dismissed the thought. Knowing about it would have done no good if she hadn’t learned to use the new method properly, for Henry’s exact problem. She had to listen to Miriam and Daeryn or she’d drive herself mad. “I suppose. But it’s so terrible it had to be Henry.”
“It would be just as terrible if it were anyone,” he said quietly.
She sighed. “Yes, it would. I’m not saying things correctly.” And now was not the time to bring up the fungus, or her suspicions about her father.
He cupped her cheeks and stared into her eyes, nearly nose to nose. “I understand. Don’t blame yourself for anything. You’re working as hard as anyone at Wellspring and doing a damned good job for a Knack-bearer who used to be an Outsider.” He blew out a breath. “You told Jac?”
Annmar nodded, her eyes welling with tears again.
“I thought so. She hasn’t been that sharp-tongued to me or anyone else in a week. I hope she wasn’t too harsh with you. She’s upset in her way.”
“She wasn’t…” Her voice broke. Jac had understood exactly why she needed to see Daeryn.
He wiped her tears with his thumbs. “There. Cry all you want. I can’t say it fixes things, but it’s something you have to do.”
He hugged her close again, and Annmar pressed into the warmth of Daeryn’s chest, holding to his strength and letting the tears run for a few minutes more. No, crying didn’t fix Henry, just like it didn’t fix Mother, so she lifted her head and wiped her eyes. “This is the first time I’ve seen someone die. Mother—” Annmar shook her head and took a breath. “I’d fallen asleep beside her. Mother was gone when I woke.”