Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
He mends so much that he gets cranky and lashes out at me when he hurts.
“I’m tired of this tea,” he grumps as I hand him another cup of willow bark.
“That’s the last of it.” It’s not, but he can just cope when I hand him the next cupful. It’s doing him good so he’s going to keep drinking it, I’ve decided. “Down it and I won’t make you any more.”
“Lies,” he grumbles, even as he tips the cup back and swigs its contents. “Deceit. You’re going to shove more at me the moment I turn around.”
“Is your leg less swollen? Then quit griping.” I turn back to the large beaten metal basin I’ve been using to soak the worst of the bloodied fabrics and wring them out. There’s a lot of work that goes into taking care of an ill person, and there’s no one else to do it but me. “You can beat my arse for lying when you’re back to yourself.”
“You keep bringing that up,” he says in a sulky voice. “I would almost think you’d enjoy it.”
I snort. “Or perhaps I’m just wise to your complaints.”
“There’s a healer on the flotilla. He’d have this taken care of quickly.”
I grit my teeth. “Great. Should we chop off your leg and send it away to him then?”
He’s silent at that. I lift up a heavy wad of fabric and wring it, but no matter how many times I soak it, the blood stains aren’t coming out. It breaks my heart to see such expensive fabric ruined, but there’s nothing to be done for it other than to keep soaking it and try again.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Tending to the laundry.” I turn and glance over my shoulder at him. I have him set up in fresh bedding, a mixture of ungodly expensive fabrics that are soft and won’t irritate his skin. His wound is wrapped, his leg propped up on a small, pricey-looking pillow that likely belongs on some rich queen’s bed. More pillows are behind his back, and two of his arms are crossed over his chest, the others flicking with impatience. “Do you need something? I can make more soup, but I’ll need to put on fresh water to boil. Or do you need help to pass water?” I straighten, rubbing my aching shoulders. “Or a bath, but again, I’ll need to draw more water. Or I can change your bedding—”
“You’re tired. Do you ever pause to rest?”
Rest sounds lovely…and very far down the list. “If I do, who’s going to take care of you?”
Ranan scowls. He hates being reminded that he’s a burden.
I turn back to the wet fabric in my hands.
“You look awful.”
That makes me pause. I turn to look at him. “If you’re trying to impress me with flattery, that’s not the best way to do it.”
He flushes, and one hand twitches. He rubs his neck. “I didn’t mean that. Just…you look weary. And you have a bad sunburn.”
Oh. “I got that rescuing you. It’s fine. It’ll fade soon enough.”
For a moment I think he’s not going to respond, but then he grunts. “I…appreciate it. You saving me. It wasn’t expected.”
His quiet words of appreciation leave me flustered. “Well, I don’t imagine the injury was expected, either. Perhaps next time you’ll get injured a bit closer to home, mmm?”
“I still appreciate you. I know this has been difficult.” He pauses. “I am not good at being useless.”
I chuckle. “Now that, I do understand.”
“Why are you washing the fabric? It seems like a great deal of work.”
Oh. I turn and face him, soaking the fabric in the basin again and then twisting and wringing it once more. My hands ache with the effort, but it doesn’t seem to be making much of a difference. The red, rusty stains remain on the delicate embroidery. “It’s very expensive cloth. I’d save it if I could. You could make a great deal of coin on a few squares of this.”
Ranan waves a hand, dismissing that. “There’s more of it. We can throw the stained cloth out.”
“It’s a waste.”
“Yes, but you’re tired.” He tilts his head, eyeing me. “Does no one ever take care of you, Vali?”
His quiet words unsettle me. I give the fabric another vicious twist, and more water trickles out. “Why would they? I’m a slave.”
“You were a slave. Now you’re my wife.”
“Seems like that’s your job then, doesn’t it?” He doesn’t respond to my offhand joke, and I grow even more flustered. “You can still get rid of me, by the way. I won’t hold it against you.”
“More lies.”
“I’m full of them, yes.” I chuckle. “But I mean it. If we’re not meant to be, then we’re not meant to be. I’ve had greater disappointments.”
He just eyes me. “You’re my wife.” He states the words again, calm and assured. “And I am thanking my wife for healing me.”