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Elissa’s heart thumps like a drum.
Footsteps now, accompanied by the mad flitting of a torch. It’s not the ice-white light carried by the ghoul. Thisone, yellow and stuttering, looks like it’s transmitting desperate lines of Morse code.
Elijah.
Opening her eyes, Elissa breathes out explosively. She knows, from their first meeting, how fragile he is; knows, too, that he’s a part of this. Thatshouldmake him the enemy but, even though she can’t trust him, she senses an opportunity here, if only she can work out the right strategy. Elijah doesn’t respond well to directness. Down here in the dark, she needs to be more oblique.
When his torch moves to the waste bucket, Elissa wrinkles her nose. ‘Sorry. I was going to deal with it. But my wrist …’ She pauses, closes her mouth. Even though she’s shackled and wounded, it’s against her nature to admit weakness.
The light picks out her injury. Elijah swallows noisily. ‘You said it was just a gash. That it wasn’t bad.’
‘It’s worse than I thought. It goes pretty deep, and it won’t stop bleeding.’
‘In here, all this damp and rot – a wound like that can get serious really quick.’
‘That’s whathesaid.’
Something tells her that mentioning the ghoul was a mistake. She needs to distract Elijah, and quickly. ‘Don’t suppose you have a first-aid kit.’
‘Afraid not.’
He shuffles closer, his torch beam focused on her wrist. The wound is a gaping black mouth from which blood steadily dribbles. There’s pus, too, a glistening stream.
This close, she hears the nasal rasp of Elijah’s breathing. There’s something odd about it, something thick and loose. She wonders if he has a facial deformity, some kind of a disfigurement. Perhaps that’s why he insists on remaining hidden.
‘You could make a bandage,’ he ventures.
‘Out of what?’
‘Your dress. Just a strip, from the bottom.’
‘I can’t tear the fabric.’
‘Icould.’
‘You?’
‘If you wanted.’
The prospect of physical contact nearly makes her gag, but her wound needs attention. ‘You won’t hurt me?’
Elijah’s gasp is so loud it’s almost theatrical. ‘I wouldneverhurt you.’ With a scrape of movement, he edges nearer, torch beam blinking. Elissa can’t help but shut her eyes. He doesn’t revolt her – not like the ghoul – but she still can’t bear him close. When she feels him lift the hem of her dress, it takes an enormous feat of willpower to remain still.
Cold air seeps between her knees. Prising open an eye, she sees he’s turned off the torch. She hears him working on her dress, but it’s not the ripping sound she’d expected, and it makes her heart beat even faster. ‘Is that a knife?’
Elijah stills. As the seconds lengthen, Elissa feels the moisture in her mouth evaporating.
‘Are you worried I’ll cut you?’ he asks.
The question is innocent enough, but in this lightless cell it acquires a disturbing nuance. When she swallows, the sound is monstrously loud, a wordless expression of her unease.
Elijah must have noticed, but he doesn’t say anything else. His question hangs unanswered between them. After what feels like an eternity, the blade continues its work, whispering as it severs the fabric.
On his footwear, she smells the loamy richness of leaf mulch. During his previous visit, he told her they were beneath a place he calls the Memory Wood. She guesses that’s probably true. Damp earth and forest aren’t the only things shesmells. There’s a fustiness to his clothes, as if they’ve gone far too long without washing. She wonders how long it’s been since he last bathed.
‘Kneel up,’ he says, once the knife’s travelled a half-circuit. Silent, she raises her buttocks. A minute later, Elijah grunts in satisfaction. ‘All done. Now we have a bandage.’
‘Thanks.’