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Authors: Suzanne Selfors
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him as he flailed and clawed the air. I should have jumped to my feet, should have made my exit. But I couldn’t move. With each shallow breath, pain shot across my chest and down my legs.
“He broke the rules. He attacked when his opponent’s back was turned. Get him outta here,” Bartholomew ordered, and the one-eyed man was dragged from the building. Then Bartholomew leaned over me. “You want me to reschedule the match?” he asked. “We don’t want to miss out on this opportunity. I think we could make double the coin if we reschedule.”
“Shut up,” I snapped. “And get me the damn surgeon.”
As shouts for the surgeon rang across the building, I stared up at the wide timbers that supported the ceiling. It wasn’t the broken rib or the surgeon’s instruments of torture that worried me at that moment. It was the pain my mother would feel when she learned I’d been fighting.
Chapter Eleven
Voices drifted in and out. Light pierced my eyelids, then faded. Sleep kept a tight hold on me, like a cocoon around a caterpillar. Warm. Cozy. Safe.
I opened my eyes.
I’d never slept on anything so soft. The bed was wider than my outstretched arms, and my body melted into the mattress. I slid my hands over the blanket. No moth holes, no itchy fibers. Where had such a smooth blanket come from?
I turned my face toward the light. From the gentle way it streamed through the window, I guessed it was morning. As my eyes adjusted, the outline of the window came into focus, as did the plaster wall, the corner chair, the little table with a vase of honeysuckle.
This was not my room. This was not our cottage.
I sat up. Pain shot down my leg. My lungs burned when I breathed. My head felt heavy, my thoughts as thick as mud. Iraised the blanket and peered beneath. The white nightfrock did not belong to me. Where was my work dress? Someone had stolen my clothes. Who would want a stained dress in exchange for this beautiful frock? I raised the blanket higher and gasped. My boots were gone. My feet, bare.
Both feet.
My heart fluttered. What was going on? Where was I?
I tried to scoot to the edge of the bed, but the pain in my leg was unbearable. I pushed off the blanket and pulled up the nightfrock. A strip of fabric wound around my right leg, knotted just above the knee. The flesh beneath ached. I untied the knot, then unwound the fabric. A jagged wound, held together with black thread, crossed my thigh. That’s when I noticed the bruises on my other leg. More bruises dotted my forearms.
A wave of dizziness pushed me back onto the pillows. I almost called for my father, but then I remembered.
My gaze raced back and forth across the beamed ceiling as the events played out. Father had been taken away to fight in a war. The farm had flooded. Snow had died. The river had grabbed hold of me, pulling me away from Root. I’d fought but the current wouldn’t release its grip. My body had turned numb as I’d struggled to keep my head above water that rushed into my ears and eyes and up my nose. Then a plank had crashed into me, come loose from someone’s barn or shed. I’d managed to pull myself onto the plank, holding tight as the current carried me on and on and on until the memory faded, replaced by darkness.
But how did I get here?
A creaking sound caught my attention. The door opened and a man entered the room. I slid low, pulling the blanket up to my eyes, my heart pounding like a rabbit’s. The man didn’t look at me as he tiptoed, his gaze set on the table at the far end of the room. His long-sleeved white shirt hung over the top of his britches, and his vest was unbuttoned. Brown curly hair fell just below his ears.
He reached for a book that lay on the table. “Oh,” he moaned, grabbing his side. Then, as if realizing he’d made a sound, he turned quickly and looked at the bed.
I snapped my eyes shut. He wasn’t a man after all. Well, he was a
man
, just not old like my father. He was closer to my
“He broke the rules. He attacked when his opponent’s back was turned. Get him outta here,” Bartholomew ordered, and the one-eyed man was dragged from the building. Then Bartholomew leaned over me. “You want me to reschedule the match?” he asked. “We don’t want to miss out on this opportunity. I think we could make double the coin if we reschedule.”
“Shut up,” I snapped. “And get me the damn surgeon.”
As shouts for the surgeon rang across the building, I stared up at the wide timbers that supported the ceiling. It wasn’t the broken rib or the surgeon’s instruments of torture that worried me at that moment. It was the pain my mother would feel when she learned I’d been fighting.
Chapter Eleven
Voices drifted in and out. Light pierced my eyelids, then faded. Sleep kept a tight hold on me, like a cocoon around a caterpillar. Warm. Cozy. Safe.
I opened my eyes.
I’d never slept on anything so soft. The bed was wider than my outstretched arms, and my body melted into the mattress. I slid my hands over the blanket. No moth holes, no itchy fibers. Where had such a smooth blanket come from?
I turned my face toward the light. From the gentle way it streamed through the window, I guessed it was morning. As my eyes adjusted, the outline of the window came into focus, as did the plaster wall, the corner chair, the little table with a vase of honeysuckle.
This was not my room. This was not our cottage.
I sat up. Pain shot down my leg. My lungs burned when I breathed. My head felt heavy, my thoughts as thick as mud. Iraised the blanket and peered beneath. The white nightfrock did not belong to me. Where was my work dress? Someone had stolen my clothes. Who would want a stained dress in exchange for this beautiful frock? I raised the blanket higher and gasped. My boots were gone. My feet, bare.
Both feet.
My heart fluttered. What was going on? Where was I?
I tried to scoot to the edge of the bed, but the pain in my leg was unbearable. I pushed off the blanket and pulled up the nightfrock. A strip of fabric wound around my right leg, knotted just above the knee. The flesh beneath ached. I untied the knot, then unwound the fabric. A jagged wound, held together with black thread, crossed my thigh. That’s when I noticed the bruises on my other leg. More bruises dotted my forearms.
A wave of dizziness pushed me back onto the pillows. I almost called for my father, but then I remembered.
My gaze raced back and forth across the beamed ceiling as the events played out. Father had been taken away to fight in a war. The farm had flooded. Snow had died. The river had grabbed hold of me, pulling me away from Root. I’d fought but the current wouldn’t release its grip. My body had turned numb as I’d struggled to keep my head above water that rushed into my ears and eyes and up my nose. Then a plank had crashed into me, come loose from someone’s barn or shed. I’d managed to pull myself onto the plank, holding tight as the current carried me on and on and on until the memory faded, replaced by darkness.
But how did I get here?
A creaking sound caught my attention. The door opened and a man entered the room. I slid low, pulling the blanket up to my eyes, my heart pounding like a rabbit’s. The man didn’t look at me as he tiptoed, his gaze set on the table at the far end of the room. His long-sleeved white shirt hung over the top of his britches, and his vest was unbuttoned. Brown curly hair fell just below his ears.
He reached for a book that lay on the table. “Oh,” he moaned, grabbing his side. Then, as if realizing he’d made a sound, he turned quickly and looked at the bed.
I snapped my eyes shut. He wasn’t a man after all. Well, he was a
man
, just not old like my father. He was closer to my
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