When Dorran returned, he looked serene again. He carried a pot of water, which he set on the coals to heat, and an old metal kit full of bandages, equipment, and surprisingly modern-looking plastic bottles. He took one, checked the label, then tipped out two pills, which he handed to Clare. She swallowed them.
“Because our family was so large, and because contact with the outside world was so unreliable, we had a doctor on staff. He worked in the kitchen when his medical skills weren’t needed. In his spare time, he taught me a little.”
Dorran placed surgical scissors and a needle driver into the pot of water, their handles poking above the steam, to boil. He then laid out a towel and indicated for Clare to give him her arm. Using gloves, he fished the scissors out of the pot, waited for them to cool, then began cutting away the bandages.
It was the first time she’d seen her arm since the crash. Nausea rushed through her, and she turned away as she tried not to panic. Her arm was red and covered in mottled bruising. Gashes ran along it like lightning marks. Dorran had stitched them. Black thread wound through the red flesh like a nightmarish tapestry.
“It is all right.” Dorran spoke softly. “It looks worse than it is. The cuts are shallow, near the surface. No broken bones. Even the muscles are mostly intact.”
Clare took a deep, gulping breath. She still didn’t trust herself to speak.
“I was as careful as I could be. Scarring should not be significant. It will only take a moment to clean this, and then we will bandage it again.”
“Okay,” she managed.
Dorran bent close as he worked on dabbing away caked blood. He was gentle, but even with the pain tablets, Clare had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep silent.
Several of the stitches had torn—probably during one of her falls—and he had to cut them free and restitch them. Clare tried not to look. She’d never been very good with blood. It wasn’t a full-blown phobia, but it left her feeling queasy. Trying to distract herself, she grabbed on to the topic that had been on her mind all evening. “The storm’s over.”
“Yes. It looks much clearer.”
“I want to try to go to my car tomorrow and get the radio.”
“Hm.” He kept his head low as he focussed on stitching one of the cuts. “The snow is deep, and the air is still frigid. It will be risky to go tomorrow, especially if there is a chance that the storm will return.”
She hissed as the needle punctured her skin, then she closed her eyes to clear her thoughts. “I don’t want to wait any longer. Beth will be frantic. And maybe, if we can contact her, we can find a way out of here. A helicopter, maybe.”
“All right. I can’t promise I will be able to reach the car, but I will try.”
She cracked her eyes open. Dorran had finished stitching, and he set the needle aside before pouring clear liquid from a bottle onto a cotton ball.
“I’ll be going with you,” Clare said.
“This will sting.”
She kicked her foot out and swallowed a cry as the antiseptic touched the cuts.
Dorran looked apologetic. “It will be over in a moment. Hold on.”
Clare was sweating and shaking by the time he’d finished. He pulled fresh bandages out of the kit and began wrapping them around her arm. He didn’t speak until he was nearly done. “I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to accompany me. It is a long walk, and in harsh conditions. Better if I go alone.”
“Safety in numbers,” she countered.
He gave her a quick look.
She lifted her chin. “I can do it. I know I can.”
“You probably could.” Dorran finished tying off the bandages. “But remember what I said earlier about minimising risk. About not relying on the best-possible scenario, no matter how likely it seems. You could probably make the trip to the car and back. But while you live in this house, I am responsible for your well-being. And I will not risk it when I can do the job myself.”
Clare wanted to argue. Whenever she thought about the radio, she pictured getting it herself. Sending someone else in her place felt wrong. But Dorran was already making a concession by travelling there before he thought it was safe.
Leave it for tonight. You can ask again tomorrow. The weather might have improved by then.
“Leg next,” Dorran said, and Clare tried not to cringe. The arm had been such a challenge that she’d forgotten about the other patches of bandages scattered about her body. Reluctantly, she extended her leg and braced herself.
The other cuts turned out to be minor compared to the damage to her arm. She’d lost a strip of skin on her leg—it had probably scraped against the road—but the injury wasn’t severe enough to need stitches. It still stung like a nightmare when Dorran cleaned it, though. She had a nick in her neck and three cuts across her abdomen. Like her arm, they had needed stitches, but Dorran said the cuts hadn’t gone deep enough to be a serious risk.
Clare lay on her back, holding a blanket over her chest for modesty, while Dorran cleaned the stitches on her stomach. She was surprised by how comfortable she was with it. She’d always been shy about showing too much skin—something Beth’s caution had reinforced—and if she’d imagined the experience before arriving at Winterbourne Hall, she would have thought it would be embarrassing at best, horrible at worst. But she didn’t feel any of that with Dorran. She felt safe.
“There, finished.” He pressed along the edges of the gauze to ensure it stuck to her then rocked back on his heels. “You’ve done well.”
A sharp gust of wind rattled the windows, and Clare startled. A door farther down the hallway banged open.
“Just the wind,” Dorran said. He packed away the kit and shut the lid. “I’ll make sure it’s closed. But don’t let it alarm you. This house likes to complain.”
He left, walking smoothly. He was confident, unafraid of what was lurking in the hallway. As Clare pulled her coat around her shoulders, she wished she could feel as secure as he did.
Chapter Eleven
They ended up sleeping on the rug, bundled in blankets and pillows, taking advantage of the fire’s warmth. Clare was secretly glad. She didn’t want to be left alone in the house. The wind beat at the windows, and the floorboards in the attic groaned, but human company made it easier to tune them out.
The wind grew worse during the night, and as Clare drifted in and out of sleep, she began to imagine the sound of fingers scrabbling at the tiles above them, so much like the noise from the wine cellar. In the early hours of the morning, she thought she heard a scream. She shot upright, breathing too quickly, her heart galloping. The noise had already faded, though, until she couldn’t tell if it had been the wind or part of a dream. Clare brushed loose hair behind her ear and pulled her knees up close to her chest.
Dorran lay near her on the rug, one arm under his head as he slept. The fire’s glow softened his face. She’d never noticed before, but he had long eyelashes. They brushed his cheeks and twitched as he dreamed.
The fire was growing low, so Clare crawled to it and fed it a fresh log. It crackled as the wood crushed the embers.
She felt cold despite the room’s warmth. When she lay back down, she moved a little closer to Dorran’s side. His forearm had slipped out from under the blanket. She tugged the quilt back over it then pulled her own blanket up around her throat and tried to relax.
She’d nearly fallen asleep when a heavy thud broke through the daze. Clare opened her eyes. Dorran still slept, his features relaxed and his breathing deep and slow. Clare twisted to see the window. It was hard to be sure with the curtains blocking the view, but she thought pale, ghastly daylight was starting to replace the moonlight.