Page 39 of Insolence (Eisha’s Hidden Codices #1)

Itissa

D ue to the extent of my injury, Fiona insisted that I keep the arm in a sling and my wrist fastened above my heart for the swelling—a directive I’ve been trying to follow. Well, for the most part.

New emotions are surfacing now that I’ve had most of the day to get over my initial shock and rage at the information I extracted from Elodie.

Emotions like the shame and embarrassment that won’t stop cramping my gut long enough to let me eat my dinner. It’s even worse when I get back to my rooms.

Regret hits like a punch to the solar plexus every time I walk past spots of Elodie’s blood on my floor. I grab a hand towel from my washstand and dunk a corner into the pitcher the handmaidens refilled when I was at dinner.

Cleaning her blood away, I can’t help but think about pressing the letter opener to Elodie’s throat. The white-hot rage that took over. The feeling of floating above my own body while the truth gradually trickled out.

Why wasn’t it enough? Will anything be enough for me?

Tears well while I scrub long past the point of cleanliness. The thought that I actually stabbed her, the memory of ramming the blade through flesh and muscle, and the satisfying squelch when it hit home have me feeling sick to my stomach.

I’m starting to spiral into panic when a soft knock lands on my door.

“Just me.” Sadrie gives a little wave when I crack it open.

“Are you all right, songbird? You didn’t seem yourself at dinner.

Barely touched your food. You haven’t been yourself for quite some time now, actually.

I can leave if you need to be alone, but I didn’t want to go to bed without checking on you first.” Her words spill out in a rush, the earnest wobble in her voice utterly melting me.

“Come on.” I step aside, holding the door open.

“Besides,” she says, raising a familiar medical kit I’m only now noticing, “it’s time to wash and rebandage that nasty cut. Can’t have it getting infected, now can we?”

“No.” I smile despite myself. “I suppose not.”

She has me sit on the edge of the bed while she pulls my washstand with its painted porcelain basin and matching jug to the bedside. I untie my sling, my arm throbbing with renewed vigor as soon as I lower it below my heart.

Water splashes softly as Sadrie fills the basin. She grabs a stack of clean washcloths, then lays out scissors and a roll of fresh bandages from the med kit.

From her skirt pocket she produces a small jar of what looks like ointment.

“Arm,” she orders, holding out her hand.

I comply, laying my wrist into her warm palm.

She wets a washcloth. “When I asked Fiona how to clean it, she said the first step is not ripping off any scabs that may be forming.” She presses the damp cloth lightly over the bandage on top of my stitches, moistening the area and loosening any part of the dressing that might be sticking.

I hiss through my teeth at the deep-reaching ache. “Just so you’re aware, I’ll never let you live down the way you’re fussing over me. You will rue this day for the rest of your life, Sadrielle.”

“That’s cute.” She gives my wrist a light tug, making me wince. “I’m not a physician, but if the snark is any indication, I predict a full recovery.”

Fair enough. But “the snark” is so much easier than acknowledging my overwhelm at the extent of her thoughtfulness. “You really asked Fiona about cleaning it?”

“Of course.” The bandage suitably damp, she grabs the scissors. “You weren’t in any state to absorb instructions yesterday. I wanted to make sure you were taken care of. And don’t worry,” she winks, “my hands are clean. Washed them before I knocked.”

“Thank you.” My heart clenches, warmth surging through me. “In all seriousness, I really appreciate it.”

The scissor blades whisper and rasp as she cuts lengthwise through the bandage.

Gently, slowly, she peels the old dressing away. The skin around my sutures is slightly swollen. The areas in between are pulled taut.

Sadrie examines me with all the authority of a physician. “There’s a little puckering around the stitches, but no inflammation. It isn’t red or oozing pus.”

I wrinkle my nose.

“It’s what Fiona said to look for. She told me to fetch her if there were any signs of infection, but so far, so good.” I’m released while Sadrie dampens a new washcloth and soaps it up. “You still haven’t told me how you wound up in this predicament.”

“Oh, gods,” I sigh. “I was hoping we could just ignore that.”

“Wouldn’t that be convenient for you ? Sadly, my caretaking comes with a price.” Motioning for my wrist again, she cleans my wound with great care. Her eyebrows shoot up, but there’s an impish quirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

I scrunch up my face. “I suppose that’s understandable.”

So I tell her what I can, including the fact that I still don’t remember everything.

Renewed shame runs through me while I talk, leaving the emptiness of self-betrayal in its wake.

Particularly horrid is knowing I did something so abhorrent (whatever it was) that Bibi felt the need to violently defend Elodie.

As a bonus, I follow up that charming anecdote with what happened this morning. By the time I’m finished, I can’t meet Sadrie’s eyes. The humiliation is infinitely worse than my poor arm and its fifteen stitches.

A new washcloth is grabbed and dunked. Sadrie squeezes it out with her free hand, the excess splashing gently in the basin, and proceeds to wipe the soap away.

“I feel like a monster,” I mumble. “I’m so ashamed of myself for losing control like that. D-do you feel—” I have no idea how to put it. “Do you ever feel like you become somebody else? I don’t know… As if you’re possessed with rage? Or any feeling, I suppose.”

“Oh, songbird, I don’t think so.” She discards the last washcloth.

With an expression close to pity, she dips two fingers into the jar, gathering a glob of ointment.

“Feelings are unavoidable, but the actions you take are a choice,” she says, misunderstanding my meaning.

“Your anger isn't about other people, Tiss. Even when you think that it is. Even when it arises from something someone says or does. Taking responsibility for your feelings means not lashing out when you feel overwhelmed.”

She packs ointment around my stitches. Reeking of herbs, it immediately soothes the deep-seated ache, dialing it back to a dull, smarting twinge.

I muddle through my thoughts, unsure how to respond. She isn’t wrong, of course, but she also doesn’t know how literal I’m being.

How could she, though? It sounds ridiculous, what I’m trying to say.

“You’re right,” I finally concede. Because she is, ultimately, and she’s going out of her way to help.

“Well,” she smiles, “I will say you keep life interesting.”

“Thank you for taking care of me. Gods, I owe Elodie a big apology. She probably hates me, if she didn’t already.”

“She doesn’t hate you. She needs time, but she’ll get over it.”

I snort. “That’s a nice thought.”

“She found me at the laundry lines this afternoon and handed me this ointment to give you.” Sadrie’s chin lifts when I glance up. “The way she phrased things, I’m fairly certain your precious priestess whipped it up specifically for this catastrophe.”

Even after I ran her through with a bloody letter opener? I look at the small glass jar with new interest while my stomach does a somersault.

“And so that we’re clear, I don’t mind if something happens between the two of you.” Sadrie’s words come in a rich hum.

“You don’t?”

“Should I? Men don’t keep to one partner down there, in the city-states.” She shrugs. “We’ve got no obligation to their family lines anymore. Why shouldn’t we do the same?”

The residual knowledge is still with me, too, from before the ritual: the societal double standard that allows men of a certain status to court whomever they please. Meanwhile, their wives are expected to stay home, stay faithful, raise their children, and perpetuate the family line.

“You’ve been pulling away these past few weeks, songbird,” she says. “It seems like you’ve been preoccupied. Or maybe trying to hide how much you’ve been struggling. You’ve had a worse time of things than me or Cordelia.”

I bend my head. “I’m so sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.” Her fingers are sure and cool beneath my chin. She tilts my face up to meet the warmth of her gaze. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I’m saying I know that temple life is sinking in now, and it’s perfectly fine if you need space to figure things out.”

I watch her wind a fresh bandage around my arm, my heart throbbing with gratitude.

“I hate that it’s been so difficult for you. I wish there was something I could do to make it easier.”

I shake my head, tears rising to the surface, threatening to break free.

“Elodie’s keeping information from me. About things that affect me.

Doesn’t warrant how I treated her, but it’s exasperating nonetheless.

The sisters and the prioress have been horrible for the most part.

That dome is an absolute nightmare. I mean, we’re trapped in here. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“It should probably bother me a little bit more,” she shrugs. “The thing is, I trust myself . I don’t know who I was before the temple. But for one reason or another, I decided to pledge myself to the goddess. And I trust Past Me to have made the right decision in that regard.”

I keep my mouth shut, not about to shatter her view of herself with what Elodie revealed this morning. At the same time, Sadrie’s point still stands. Apparently, I did pledge myself willingly to Eisha.

But could it really be as simple as “good enough for Past Me is good enough for me now”? I want it to be— need it to be, which must count for something.

“Besides, we might have never met if not for the temple,” she says, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

That same gladness is buoyant in my chest. “That’s true,” I smile. “I’m so glad that I met you.”