Page 141 of Moonless

I go back to the little room for the stones. They’re cold, and they all fit in one hand if I keep the claws out of the way. The dish can stay. I leave it behind the lamp and fold the stones into the hide with his shirt.

The bolt-head’s still on its shelf past the pool, under the cloth I folded over it the day she held it. I can still smell the moonbright through it. Don’t clean it. I haven’t. I wrap it in a scrap of hide with the iron turned in and push it down the side of the sack, well away from the food.

I lay a spare shirt over the bundle. That one will fit her as badly as the others, but it’ll be dry when she needs it.

There’ll be a night on the way. She’ll need something beneath her back, and my cloak alone won’t do it. I take a small fur from my own pallet and roll it tight enough to tie under the sack.

The first pull on the cord hurts my bitten arm.

Hitto.

I loosen it and use my left hand instead. The old wound aches there too, but it holds.

I look at the bundle, then at her sleeping on the thicker furs.

This one will have to do. She’ll be warm beneath my cloak with me beside her.

I add dried meat, leaving room for her fish. Two rolls of clean linen go near the top, where I can reach them. I look at the blood on my wrist and take a third. She’ll have this wrap off me before midday.

Beside the food, the little bunch of herbs has only a few leaves left. I turn it over, rubbing one between my thumb and a blunt fingertip. It’s dried almost to dust.

She’ll want them with the fish tonight. There isn’t enough here for one meal.

I leave the sack open by my pallet and get to my feet. Kestria’s breathing hasn’t changed. I stop beside her long enough to lift the loose hair off her mouth, then take a length of twine and go outside.

The slab’s still open, and the sun’s well up outside. I turn along the upper path toward the shoulder of rock.

I can feel her behind me as I go. At the turn, I stop and look back at the entrance, though I can’t see her from here. She’s asleep, and I’m looking at a rock.

The herbs are only a little farther on. I keep walking.

On the ledge, I brace my good knee against the rock. Bending pulls the scratches down my side. Everything I do this morning pulls something. I get down low enough to reach without stretching.

She’s cut from these plants before. I find the same leaves and take the tender stems above the older cuts, nipping them off with my first claw. They smell the way her cooking does. Mine never did.

There’s enough for tonight in my hand. But she’ll cook tomorrow too, and some will get crushed in the sack.

I take another bunch from farther along.

My forearm starts throbbing, so I shift the leaves to my left hand. There’s still room for more. I cut those within reach and bind the stems with the twine.

When I stand, the bunch is as thick as my arm, and I have to carry it against my chest.

I think that’s enough.

I ease back around the rock with it held clear of my bandage.

I smell fish cooking before I’m through the passage. She’s up, then. Fat’s hissing over the coals when I reach the hearth.

Kestria’s sitting on the hearthstone with her feet stretched toward the heat. She’s put on the shirt with the torn hem, and one cuff’s rolled higher than the other. Her knife lies on the preparation stone beside a bowl of entrails. Mel can’t say she didn’t clean them.

Two fish roast on spits at the edge of the hearth. The other two are cleaned and split on the stone. All four done, with those ribs.

She turns her whole body to see me, then stops and puts her hand against her ribs.

I start toward her. She’s going to say she’s all right.

“I’m all right. I forgot not to twist.”