“Hold it still,” Sasha soothed as she cupped Riley’s hand between hers. “It feels . . . clean. Sore, stiff, but clean. You can wiggle your fingers.”
Feeling them, watching them move brought Riley such intense relief she nearly couldn’t speak. When she did, her voice shook. “I was afraid I’d lose use of it, or at least some use of it.”
She made a fist, opened it, closed it. “Sore, yeah. Maybe one and a half on a scale of ten.” Emboldened, she rolled her right shoulder, flexed her biceps, tested range of motion. “Maybe two on the scale, but that’ll ease up with use.”
For the major test, she walked to the cheval glass. Hollow-eyed, gaunt, she thought. Weak. “Jesus, I look puny.”
“Other than the soup last night, you haven’t had a solid meal in nearly a week.”
“I’ll make up for that. Any of it left? The soup?”
“Yes.”
“I want that—after a shower, real clothes.”
“I’ll stand by.”
The shower ranked as miraculous, as did being able to use her hands, her arms with minimal discomfort. As she dressed, she noticed Sasha’s easel on the balcony, and the painting in progress of the forest.
“I was angry with the forest, too,” Sasha told her. “Ridiculous really, but that’s how I felt. I thought painting it would exorcise that, and it’s helped. Seeing you on your feet finishes it.”
“Wait until you see me eat. While I do maybe you can fill me in on what’s been happening while I was out of it.”
“Bran’s made real progress on the shield he’s creating. Doyle’s been cracking the whip when he hasn’t been at the books.”
The idea of Doyle researching without prodding had Riley stopping short. “At the books?”
“Translating mostly. Some passages in Greek, others in Irish or Latin on the stars, and the island. No definitive answers yet there.”
As they came down the back steps, Sawyer walked in from the mudroom. “Hey! I was just going to head up to check. Look at you!”
“Don’t look too close,” Riley advised, but he wrapped his arms around her in a hug. “Aw, you missed me.”
“Did. Nobody around here wants to discuss the details, small and large, of the cinematic pastiche that is A New Hope.”
“You’ve really suffered.”
“Tell me.” Though he was subtle about it, he kept an arm around Riley’s waist to walk her to the table. “But you’re looking for food.”
“Damn skippy.”
“I’ve got this,” he told Sasha. “Bran’s still out with Doyle at target practice. Annika’s out there with Brigid—Brigid’s teaching her to knit,” he told Riley as he took the container of soup out of the fridge.
“Knit?”
“Yeah, they’ve bonded over yarns. Anyway, they’d like to know the prodigal’s returned.”
“I’ll go out.” Sasha took a last glance at Riley, went out.
Curious, Riley sat back. “Okay, you got rid of her.”
“Just wanted you to know she’s worried you’ll look at her different.”
“Don’t,
won’t, and we settled all that.”
“Knew you would.” While the soup heated, he cut her a generous slab of bread, deftly sliced up an apple, cubed some cheese. “Appetizer.”