way.”
Monza half-smiled back, but in her gut she felt a creeping of disgust. It mingled with the sickness she was feeling every so often, now. That sweating need.
She swallowed. “Could I-”
“Of course.” He was already holding the pipe out to her.
Close it.”
“It won’t close!” she hissed, three of the fingers just curling, the little one still sticking out straight, or as close to straight as it ever came. She remembered how nimble-fingered she used to be, how sure, and quick, and the frustration and the fury were sharper even than the pain. “They won’t close!”
“For weeks you have been lying here. I did not mend you so you could smoke husk and do nothing. Try harder.”
“Do you want to fucking try?”
“Very well.” His hand closed relentlessly around hers and forced the bent fingers into a crunching fist. Her eyes bulged from her head, breath whistling too fast for her to scream.
“I doubt you understand how much I am helping you.” He squeezed tighter and tighter. “One cannot grow without pain. One cannot improve without it. Suffering drives us to achieve great things.” The fingers of her good hand plucked and scrabbled uselessly at his fist. “Love is a fine cushion to rest upon, but only hate can make you a better person. There.” He let go of her and she sagged back, whimpering, watched her trembling fingers come gradually halfway open, scars standing out purple.
She wanted to kill him. She wanted to shriek every curse she knew. But she needed him too badly. So she held her tongue, sobbed, gasped, ground her teeth, smacked the back of her head against the bench.
“Now, close your hand.” She stared into his face, empty as a fresh-dug grave. “Now, or I must do it for you.”
She growled with the effort, whole arm throbbing to the shoulder. Gradually, the fingers inched closed, the little one still sticking straight. “There, you fucker!” She shook her numb, knobbly, twisted fist under his nose. “There!”
“Was that so hard?” He held the pipe out to her and she snatched it from him. “You need not thank me.”
And we will see if you can take the-”
She squealed, knees buckling, would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her.
“Still?” He frowned. “You should be able to walk. The bones are knitted. Pain, of course, but… perhaps a fragment within one of the joints, still. Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere!” she snarled at him.
“I trust this is not simply your stubbornness. I would hate to open the wounds in your legs again unnecessarily.” He hooked one arm under her knees and lifted her without much effort back onto the bench. “I must go for a while.”
She clutched at him. “You’ll be back soon?”
“Very soon.”
His footsteps vanished down the corridor. She heard the front door click shut, the sound of the key scraping in the lock.
“Son of a fucking whore.” And she swung her legs down from the bench. She winced as her feet touched the floor, bared her teeth as she straightened up, growled softly as she let go of the bench and stood on her own feet.
It hurt like hell, and it felt good.
She took a long breath, gathered herself and began to waddle towards the far side of the room, pains shooting through her ankles, knees, hips, into her back, arms held out wide for balance. She made it to the cupboard and clung to its corner, slid open the drawer. The pipe lay inside, a jar of bubbly green glass beside it with some black lumps of husk in the bottom. How she wanted it. Her mouth was dry, her palms sticky with sick need. She slapped the drawer closed and hobbled back to the bench. Everything was still pierced with cold aches, but she was getting stronger each day. Soon she’d be ready. But not yet.
Patience is the parent of success, Stolicus wrote.
Across the room, and back, growling through her clenched teeth. Across the room and back, lurching and grimacing. Across the room and back, whimpering, wobbling, spitting. She leaned against the bench, long enough to get her breath.
Across the room and back again.
The mirror had a crack across it, but she wished it had been far more broken.
Your hair is like a curtain of midnight!
Shaved off down the left side of her head, grown back to a scabby stubble. The rest hung lank, tangled and greasy as old seaweed.
Your eyes gleam like piercing sapphires, beyond price!
Yellow, bloodshot, lashes gummed to clumps, rimmed red-raw in sockets purple-black with pain.
Lips like rose petals?
Cracked, parched, peeling grey with yellow scum gathered at the corners. There were three long scabs across her sucked-in cheek, sore brown against waxy white.
You look especially beautiful this morning, Monza…
On each side of her neck, withered down to a bundle of pale cords, the red scars left by Gobba’s wire. She looked like a woman just dead of the plague. She looked scarcely better than the skulls stacked on the mantelpiece.
Beyond the mirror, her host was smiling. “What did I tell you? You look well.”
The very Goddess of War!
“I look a fucking carnival curiosity!” she sneered, and the ruined crone in the mirror sneered back at her.
“Better than when I found you. You should learn to look on the happy side of the case.” He tossed the mirror down, stood and pulled on his coat. “I must leave you for the time being, but I will be back, as I always am. Continue working the hand, but keep your strength. Later I must cut into your legs and establish the cause of your difficulty in standing.”
She forced a sickly smile onto her face. “Yes. I see.”
“Good. Soon, then.” He threw his canvas bag over his shoulder. His footsteps creaked down the corridor, the lock closed. She counted slowly to ten.
Off the bench and she snatched up a pair of needles and a knife from the tray. She limped to the cupboard, ripped open the drawer, stuffed the pipe into the pocket of the borrowed trousers hanging from her hip bones, the jar with it. She lurched down the hall, boards creaking under bare feet. Into the bedroom, grimacing as she fished the old boots from under the bed, grunting as she pulled them on.
Out into the corridor again, her breath hissing with effort, and pain, and fear. She knelt down by the front door, or at least lowered herself by creaking degrees until her burning knees were on the boards. It was a long time since she’d worked a lock. She fished and stabbed with the needles, twisted hand fumbling.
“Turn, you bastard. Turn.”
Luckily the lock wasn’t good. The tumblers caught, turned with a satisfying clatter. She grabbed the knob and hauled the door open.
Night, and a hard one. Cold rain lashed an overgrown yard, rank weeds edged with the slightest glimmer of
