Like anybody else.
What it was to be held, and even, by the end, to be kissed.
To feel his hand in hers.
For even the light brushes that came from standing near, to reaching out to skim fingertips simply because she wanted to do it.
But there would be no more simple touches here. All calculated, all with a hint of the forbidden, something set apart.
“Fine,” she murmured, sitting upward, her neck aching. “I fell asleep, that is all.”
“Ah,” the man acknowledged, standing upright. He said nothing more, his eyes assessing, and Penryn wished she had her cloak to hide in. “My name is Donlov, and I am a healer in these parts. Would you permit my examination?”
She stiffened. It was phrased as a question, yet she knew it was not her command he would follow, and that aggravated her even now.
But she found herself trying all the same.
“I was looked over,” she attempted with a pointed look. “Before.”
Surely they had told him not to make too many enquiries, that he was given no further privileges than anyone else in the knowledge he would collect here. It was bad enough that they knew she had been hurt at all.
Although that proof would perhaps be necessary, if her word alone of what she had witnessed was not enough to make them publically acknowledge the breach.
A smile, perhaps placating, perhaps more accurately, patronising. “But not by me.”
Penryn took a deep breath, already annoyed, and belatedly noticed the leather bag at his side, the handle attached with two rings of bright gold, a placard on the front presumably giving his name, although the light was wrong for her to actually read it.
Fighting was a pointless endeavour, so she raised her arm and allowed him to inspect the broken appendage for himself. It was better than it could have been, regardless of what Donlov thought. Grimult had taken excellent care of her, and she was grateful, and she would not hear a word spoken against him.
She shivered at the first touch, biting her lip to keep her nervousness at bay. Fingers pressed in assessment, up her forearm and settling back at her wrist. “Make a fist, please,” he instructed, not bothering to look away from her arm even to ensure she understood. She complied, the action causing pain, most especially when he urged her to tighten it beyond what was initially comfortable. “And release.”
The dull throb remained, a warning against doing any such thing again, and she found the first kernels of resentment blossoming that she had been asked to do it at all.
“It was broken, yes?” he asked, and she wondered if it was truly so obvious that he could tell so easily. She lowered her arm when he released her, and looked at it. It was perhaps a little swollen still, but it looked fairly ordinary. “Henrik mentioned you had it wrapped, and he thought a splint had been used as well,” he expounded at her silence, and that alleviated some of her concern.
“Yes,” she answered simply, holding it to her, bracing herself for some chastisement that was not his place to give.
“You are mending well. The bone is aligned correctly, and while I will wrap it for you, it should not be needed for long. Perhaps a fortnight, if not before.” Penryn’s shoulders released some of their tension and she nodded, grateful now that he would be able to see to the bindings as it would have been awkward to attempt it herself.
He placed his bag down on the chair across from her, and she wondered for a moment at its presence. Did the sages imagine there would be many to pass the time with her, seated before the first?
The ache in her heart grew, and she found herself absently rubbing it with her good hand, as if somehow acknowledging it physically would ease some of the discomfort.
Penryn’s attention shifted when he began to pull out the necessary articles. No more strips of wood wrapped in cloth, but metal shafts, thin and elegant in their design, tucked into fabric sleeves that had been crafted precisely for the purpose. It was all so fine and neat, and she found herself fascinated at his preparedness.
Which quickly melted to incredulity when even the bandages he produced to hold it all to her had been dyed a deep shade of crimson.
He must have caught her look, and the corners of his mouth quirked upward. “Only the finest for you,” he offered, as if that had been the cause of her upset.
“Your people must have this dye in abundance,” Penryn found herself saying before she made the conscious decision to voice the complaint.
Donlov blinked at her in surprise. “Quite the reverse, I assure you.”
Penryn frowned, feeling all the more guilt should the process of acquiring and making the dye be perilous. But she had little choice in the matter either, and to not accept it with grace was perhaps the gravest insult she could imagine.
So she said nothing and watched the Donlov work, wishing it was another pair of hands, ones that would linger and give her fingers an affectionate squeeze before letting them go.
The tears did not come, a numbness beginning to spread. She should be grateful for it, for the respite from the never-ending wells of emotion, but even that felt a loss, as if her body was forming a callous where her heart should have been.
“I am to examine you fully,” the healer told her when he was satisfied with her wrist.
Penryn stiffened. “That will not be necessary,” she assured him, hoping the firmness of her tone was enough to quell any argument.
But she merely reserved a stern look in return. “You are in our care,” he reminded her, as if Penryn possibly could have forgotten. “We must ensure that you are kept
