16. Survivor's Guilt

30th of Nima

There was still blood under my fingernails. 

There had been more. My skin had been scarlet. Shiny and scarlet. Someone had scrubbed my knuckles hard because there had been so much of it... 

 

Arramy's head lolling on my shoulder. My fingers in his bloodied hair, holding him close to keep him from being jostled. The rumble of wooden wheels on pavement, the rush of wind whistling through woven-cane wagon rails. One of the guards turning to look down at us from the driver's seat as he whipped the horses into a lather. The sound of a man's voice shouting, "Almost there, Miss, almost there! Just hang on!" 

Mrs. Burre climbing up into the wagon, her lean face drawn as she presses two fingers beneath Arramy's jaw. 

The chef and the groundskeeper coming out to meet us in the delivery bay. The cold emptiness of my arms when Arramy's unresisting body is lifted out of the wagon and onto a stretcher. The crack of the swinging kitchen doors slamming open. Mrs. Burre barking orders. Something shattering as the kitchen girls sweep everything off the preparation table. Mrs. Burre cutting away Arramy's ruined vest and pants with quick, efficient slices of a knife. Arramy lying still and pale. So pale. Blood on the floor, blood on the table, blood on Mrs. Burre's apron... Blood on my skirt and soaked through my blouse, sticky on my skin... 

 

The snap of an ember in the fireplace yanked me back into reality. I blinked and brought my knees up to my chest, sending the bath water lapping gently around me. Then my eyes drifted shut and I was lost again: 

 

The plink of metal on glass. The smell of warm honey and fresh garlic and witchbitter astringent. Mrs. Burre bending over Arramy, her hand moving up and down, up and down, on and on, a curved needle glinting in the light of the mirrored lantern hanging above the table. Chef boiling water for the fifth time. Someone mopping up the trail of blood on the floor. Mrs. Burre standing back and wiping her hands on her apron, announcing that there was nothing more she could do.

Two men in matching black jackets carrying Arramy's stretcher onto the servants' lift. The rattle of the accordion gate closing behind them, then the hum of the lift engine as it begins climbing. The gleam of Arramy's hair stark against dull metal walls, disappearing from view. 

The kitchen staff quietly sweeping up the vegetables they had been chopping before we arrived, picking up shards of the mixing bowl that had fallen, wiping the table down with bleach and lavender water, gathering the bloodied towels and wads of gauze Mrs. Burre had used to stem the worst of the bleeding. Chef dumping a pot of ruined sauce into the scullery bin. 

Someone noticing me sitting on the floor in the corner. A kitchen girl running to find Mrs. Burre. 

Mrs. Burre sitting down next to me, her back to the wall too. Silence. Then: "You did an amazing thing, today. I won't lie. I've seen men die from less. But he's a fighter... and he has a chance because of you. Now. What say we get you cleaned up a bit? You'll feel better after a good soak."

 

I opened my eyes. I was in warm water up to my chin, my hair was washed and combed free of clay and grime, my skin scrubbed shiny. There was a fire dancing merrily in the grate, chasing the night chill from the room. If I pulled on the bell ribbon, Ina would come popping in. I was safe. I wasn't running anymore. Nothing and no one was hunting me.

That only made it worse. A sob rolled through me, but my lungs wouldn't draw air. I bent over my bare knees, curling around the ache, my mouth contorting on a silent cry. I had left him and then I nearly lost him. If I had followed the guards instead of scrambling over that log; if I hadn't seen his hand; if I had found him even a few minutes later, Arramy would have died.

He still might. Mrs. Burre wasn't holding out any promises. She had gotten the bullet out of him, but the infection wasn't gone, and blood loss had made him weak.

Father, Aunt Sapphine, Raggan... the captain... Everyone I had ever gotten close to was either dead or in danger. I knew better than to think it was all my fault, but a cruel, insidious little whisper insisted that I was the only common denominator, before slithering and twisting itself around the new, unwelcome awareness that I couldn't stop any of this from happening. Just like I couldn't stop that man outside the Moonflower.

With a strangled groan I surged to my feet and climbed out of the tub.