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“And with your spirit,” Thomas replied.
Father Molnár rose and walked back to his flock without another word. I turned to Thomas, my eyes burning and heart hammering. In a world with so much evil, good people still thrived.
“We go tonight,” I said.
He nodded once, and for the first time in days, he didn’t look like he was about to fall over.
53
Thomas
FatherMolnár’swordslingeredlong after he left.
“You may not wear the cloth, but you carry the weight,” he’d said.
I sat motionless under the tree as the cold crept up my spine, the sky above bleeding into night. Pilgrims sang by firelight, some swaying, some holding hands. Their voices were weary but beautiful—like cracked porcelain mended with gold.
Will crouched beside me, opening the cloth bundle Molnár had given him like it was something sacred. And maybe it was. The way I’d felt—the way I was beginning to feel the further away from medicated I got—any relief was Divine Providence.
“I’m going to change the bandage,” he said, setting out the supplies on a piece of folded canvas. “Then you’ll take one of these and a shot of this.”
He held up the bottle. Codeine. It was only half full and would need to be rationed to last, but it was more than we’d had when the day began.
“I can do it without—” I started, but he gave me a look.
“No, you can’t.”
He was right. My hands shook, and I felt clumsy and brittle.
So I let him work.
He removed the old wrappings, gently peeling them back. The linen stuck in places, and I hissed as it tore free. Will didn’t flinch. He just wiped the edges of the wound with antiseptic and steadied my arm with one hand while wrapping the fresh gauze with the other.
When the last layer came away, the night air hit skin that felt raw and too exposed.
I tilted my head to look, though part of me didn’t want to see.
The wound was smaller than I remembered, but angrier. A dark red oval, puckered around the edges where the bullet had passed. The entry point on the front of my shoulder was no bigger than a coin now, but both it and the exit in my back were rimmed with bruising—shadows of the trauma beneath. The flesh around the hole looked swollen, taut with tension, the color more purple than pink. Angry veins spread like cracks in glass.
There was no pus or odor.
That was something, but the skin looked shiny, stretched too tight, the kind of tight that warned of infection trying to bloom just beneath the surface.
Will leaned closer, inspecting it by lantern light, his brows pulling low.
“Still clean,” he murmured, “but it’s fighting to stay that way.”
The pain dimmed, then flared, then dimmed again.
“You’re getting better,” he murmured.
I gave him a look.
“You are,” he said. “And you’re still standing, still fighting.”
“Barely,” I muttered.
He handed me the codeine and a flask of water. “Barely counts.”