Page 64 of Starside

I take a strip of ripped fabric from her pants, and wrap it around and around, as tightly as it will go. She looks up at me with heavy-lidded eyes.

They close.

“No,” I say, clutching her hands. They’re freezing. “Stay awake.”

It’s almost dawn. We’ll be at our destination soon. I’ll be able to wrap the wounds better. We could find her help. But she needs to stay awake.

Her eyes close again. I pinch her fingers.

“Tell me—tell me something,” I plead. I said the same words to my sister as she was dying.

Kira goes quiet. I pinch harder.

“Tell me about your sister,” I say.

At that, she smiles. “She’s—” Her voice fades away.

“She’s what?”

“She’s a terrible liar,” she says weakly. “Everyone always beats her at cards.”

I nod. “What else?”

Quiet. A rock jostles the boat.

My voice rises. “What else?”

She takes a shaking breath. “She … she hates lying, but she lies for me. She lies when she says she’s had enough to eat. She lies to the neighbors about the firewood missing from their backyards.” She swallows. “She—she lied in front of a guard and kept me from the jails when I was accused of stealing food.”

Her eyes glisten as they open again and hold mine. I don’t drop her gaze, gripping her fingers tighter, and she squeezes back.

“She’s only twelve, but she’s so smart. I used to steal her books from the ruins of an ancient house. It had been almost completely looted, but no one cared about the books, of course. Every time I would go out thieving, I would bring one back. She would be waiting with the most delicious food. Somehow, she made potatoes taste good without salt. I can’t explain it.” Her sigh shakes her whole body. “I would give anything for her potato soup. She puts—she puts some sort of pepper in it.”

“You’ll have that soup,” I say, putting both of her hands between mine, trying to give her some warmth. “What happened to her?”

Kira frowns. “Our mother—she was addicted to hemdrake. She didn’t stop using it when she was with child … and my sister was born weak. Frail. My mother abandoned her at the outskirts of town, next to a forest, hoping the wolves would get her. I snuck out and brought her back. I began stealing milk and fed her every day. She gripped my finger—like this.” She wraps her hand around my pointer finger. “And those eyes … they looked at me like I was the only person in the world. And I was … for her. I still am.”

She shakes her head. “The drug killed my mother soon after, and there we were, alone. She was always feeble. She couldn’t leave the house, but she was smart and capable and began weaving for money. Between that and the thieving, we carved out a life. But then … she started having the same signs my mother did. Shortened breath. Uncontrollable shaking. I saved everything I made from stealing to bring a medic to our home, but he said she’s beyond help. Her lungs are too small. She’ll suffocate to death one day soon. The only hope—”

“Is magic,” I finish.

She nods. “I knew the Questral was approaching. I promised a merchant a portion of my winnings if they took her in. They did. I didn’t tell her until the last day, and you—you should have heard how she screamed at me. How she told me she could live with her own death but not mine …”

She looks up at me. Her eyes are glassy and dejected.

“You are not going to die,” I say, gripping her hand tighter. “Her name. Say it.”

Tears stream down her face. “Anise. Her name is Anise. I named her—named her after the flowers my mother abandoned her on.” She laughs. “There are so few flowers on our side. But there they were … a patch of them … as if they were holding her.”

I nod, throat tight. “Anise will get medicine. Anise will get better. You will survive this.”

I have no business saying these words, or caring if she does survive this. But I do. I do.

Her gaze locks onto mine. Something in her changes. Firms. The fire in me spreads to her, like inviting a person to share the heat of a hearth, and I see the resolve set in her face. “I will survive this,” she whispers.

“You will survive this,” I echo.

She holds on to my hand with the strength of a person who hasn’t already lost a good portion of her blood. She doesn’t let go, until our boat knocks against the riverbank—and stops.