Page 36 of Moonless

He keeps looking uphill.

Of course. I put a hand on him, and now it’s my fault he’s got wet trousers.

I look down at my hand against the bandage. Blood has reached the edge of my thumb.

“I asked you for every bit of that. You heard me.”

He adjusts his arm behind my back, supporting more of my weight. I wait for an answer until we pass the stream.

Fine.

Then I turn my face away from him.

He carries me up the bare rock without stopping. The mountain opening only becomes visible when we’re nearly beneath the hanging growth, and he ducks through with my head sheltered by his shoulder.

Inside, the slab is still open.

I look at it as he turns past, holding me close enough to clear the narrow bend. I got beyond that stone. I got down the slope and past the stream.

Now my feet hang over his arm while he takes me back to the pallet.

He lowers me onto the furs, then goes to close the passage. The scrape of stone reaches me from beyond the bend. Shut again.

I loosen the belt with one hand. By the time he returns, I’ve worked my good arm out of the shirt. He kneels on my left and helps with the other sleeve, easing it over the bandage a little at a time.

His eyes stay on my shoulder.

He puts the cloak around me and goes into the inner passage for water. I sit with my right hand still pressed over the wound, watching the fire while the water warms.

The stone flake presses against my hip through the fur.

When it’s ready, I lift my hand away. He unties the wrapping and wets the pad until it loosens. The last corner clings, and he waits with his hand beneath my elbow.

I turn my shoulder toward him. “Just pull it.”

He dips the cloth again.

“I won’t break.”

His fingers stop beneath my elbow. Then he lowers the dirty pad into the bowl and reaches for a clean one.

There’s a narrow split in the skin that was closed this morning. It bleeds again when I lean forward to see it, and he brings my arm closer to my ribs.

I sit back while he presses fresh cloth against it.

I can still reach the fur at the back of his neck. My right hand rests on the cloak instead.

The patch on his trousers has dried dark where my palm was. He hasn’t been near the water for anything but my shoulder.

He wraps the shoulder, checks the knot, and works one of the bitten fingers beneath the linen. It comes out straight, with no claw to keep clear. Then he undoes the knot and ties it again a little farther from my skin.

I look at the second knot. “That was fine.”

He smooths the edge of the pad.

When he’s finished, he helps me into a dry shirt from the folded clothes by the wall. The cuffs cover my hands, and I roll them myself.

He unties the foot wraps last, picking the swollen knot loose with the bitten fingers. His hand is off my ankle the moment it gives.