o;Just passing through.”
“Are you Avenian?”
“No.”
“Are you a thief?” I hesitated, then he shook his head. “You’re not. Those clothes you wear suggest it, but your nails are too clean, your hair is trimmed, and if I may say, you don’t smell like a thief. You’ve bathed recently.”
The last thing I wanted was to make the conversation about me. “Is Nila all right?”
“She’s mourning, but with time and care I believe she’ll pull through.” His eyes moistened and he added, “You saved her life.” I started to shake my head but he said, “No, you did. She told me the whole story. You fought all those men off on your own.”
“They weren’t much for opponents,” I said, forcing an expression calmer than I felt. How was it possible to feel so at home and so uncomfortable at the same time? I set my napkin on the table and stood. “Thank you for the meal, but I really must go.”
“That’s fresh blood on your shirt.” Harlowe rose from his chair and called for a servant to enter. Then without even asking, he walked to me and lifted my shirt, revealing a long cut across my stomach. “You got this in that fight?”
I backed up and pulled the shirt down, which did little good since the shirt was also cut. “It’s only a scratch.”
“Scratches don’t bleed like that.”
The servant entered and Harlowe directed him to get a bandage and some alcohol. I groaned. Wherever they were, the devils must be laughing. In repayment for my good deed, I was yet again to be treated to far greater pain than any wound could cause.
“Take him to the guest bedroom and bandage him up. He may rest there as long as he wishes, and then we’ll provide him with some more appropriate clothes.”
I objected, but it was pointless. Harlowe’s servant pulled me out of the room, and as exhausted as I was, there wasn’t enough in me to resist.
I insisted on removing my own shirt before the servant cleaned the wound, then lay on the bed so he couldn’t see the scars on my back. My preference would have been to keep the shirt on, but it was stained with my blood and the blood of Nila’s mother, so until it could be washed it was completely unusable.
In a vain attempt to distract myself, I tried to make conversation while the servant gently washed the cut with warm water.
“What kind of master is Rulon Harlowe?” I asked.
“The best. He’s kind and generous and sincere. Libeth couldn’t exist without him.”
“Does he have a wife?”
“She died a year ago . . . sir.” He nearly choked at having to address me with a respectable title.
“And does he have any children other than his son?”
“No. He lost another child many years ago due to a great tragedy. And forgive the observation, but you look a little like his son Mathis. He was older than you and there are differences of course, but anyone who knew Mathis would be able to see the resemblance.”
Maybe that was why Harlowe treated me so kindly. Perhaps I reminded him of what he’d lost. I started to ask more about that but the servant had moved on to patting the cut with an alcohol-soaked sponge. I howled and arched my back, then told him if he didn’t stop I’d hurt him. He removed the sponge and stared at it a moment, unsure of whether to finish tending the wound as he’d been ordered to do, or opt for self-preservation.
“Put the sponge down and wrap me up,” I said. “Enough alcohol soaked into this wound on my arm; it’ll find its way to this new injury just fine.”
The servant reached for a bandage. “Do you mind if I ask what happened there?”
“Yeah, I do.”
He finished up quickly, then offered me another sponge and a pan of warm water to wash myself. “I’ll let you have some privacy now,” he said, and left the room.
I sponged off until I was as clean as I cared to be, then wrapped myself in a robe the servant had left behind. I couldn’t explore Harlowe’s home in only a robe, so I lay on the bed to wait for the servant to return with some clothes. It had been my plan to stay awake, but when my eyes opened again, a thick blanket was spread across me. A clock on the bedside table indicated it was early afternoon, much longer than I’d ever wanted to sleep.
I tossed the blanket aside and quickly dressed in a set of clothes laid on the bed. A full-sleeved linen shirt went beneath a long, copper-colored vest trimmed in silver-plated buttons. The woolen pants were a little big on my waist, but then most pants were lately, and the leather boots fit perfectly. When I opened the door, another servant waiting for me said, “You’re awake, then? Master Harlowe has an afternoon meal ready for you, if you’ll join him.”
“Where are the clothes I had before?” I asked.
“They’ve been burnt, sir,” he said.