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The man was clearly unaccustomed to anyone trying to help him or his family, and he wrung his hands in indecision. Although he himself had not thought to do anything for the boy’s injury, Céline’s talk of pain and setting bones had clearly upset him. He seemed uncertain about entrusting his son to a stranger.

The man looked to Mercedes, who was standing in the doorway.

She wore the same quietly angry expression, but her head moved up and down once. “She’s one of my people, from the line of Fawe. If she says she can set the bone, she can set it.”

Amelie was startled. How would Mercedes know they were Móndyalítko, from the line of Fawe? But she bit back any questions. She didn’t want the miner to begin to doubt.

“How can I help?” the man asked.

“Get some boards,” Céline answered, “strong, but narrow and short, so I can splint his forearm.”

And so for the second time in two days, Amelie helped her sister drug someone senseless, set a bone, brace it with boards, and wrap it tightly. By the time they were done, Céline was pale and wiping her forehead with her sleeve. Since entering this wagon, she’d not stopped to rest for hours.

“Now we need something to make a proper sling,” she said, looking around.

Mercedes was still in the open doorway. “Use one of the curtains. They’re clean, and I cannot think of anything else.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

The curtains were one of the few homey touches inside the wagon, but Céline took one down and fashioned a sling, tying the boy’s arm against his chest.

“He should wake soon,” she said.

Mercedes turned to call outside somewhere, “Shaldon, you can come carry him home.” Then her voice lowered, and she spoke to someone else outside. “Mariah, go and tell Marcus not to bring any more men. The healer’s done in. But tell him that I want him to come himself.”

A few moments later, the still-sleeping boy was carried out, and Céline finally sank onto the bench.

* * *

Céline’s hands and arms were nearly numb as she allowed herself to sit still for a few breaths.

Mercedes stepped inside the wagon. “You did well. I’d forgotten . . . I’ve forgotten a lot of things.”

“How did you know she’s from the line of Fawe?” Amelie asked.

Céline looked up, as she had been wondering that herself.

“Her hair,” Mercedes answered. “Only the line of Fawe has hair that color. You see any Móndyalítko here with tan hair? And you’ve both got lavender eyes.”

“But how did you know we’re Móndyalítko?” Céline asked.

Mercedes snorted. “You think I’d let you in here, let you treat these people, if you weren’t? I know my own kind when I see one.”

Perhaps unconsciously, Amelie reached up and touched her hair. Ironically, she’d inherited her dark hair from their father, who was not Móndyalítko.

Then Céline felt rather than heard something in the doorway and turned her head. She froze. The man standing there was a taller, more muscular version of Mariah, though he was closer to Mercedes in age. His coal black hair hung down past his collar, and his eyes were locked on Céline. She would never have described him as handsome. He was . . . beautiful. Like Mariah, he had something almost feral about him, as if he didn’t belong inside any four walls. More important, even though she’d never seen him before, there was something familiar about him, as if she’d known him for years.

“This is my cousin Marcus,” Mercedes said. “I want you to look at his shoulder. He’ll be the last one today. I promise.”

“My shoulder’s fine,” Marcus answered.

“It’s not fine,” Mariah snapped at him, “and we have a proper healer. Let her see it.” She moved to the back of the wagon, to the bunk beds, to give him room to enter.

Slowly, still staring at Céline, he came inside.

“Please sit,” she managed to say, and he sank onto the bench.

Amelie went to sit with Mercedes on one of the beds.

“Take a look at the back of his right shoulder,” Mercedes instructed.

His shirt was dark brown, but when Céline moved to examine his back, she could see spots of blood soaking through.

“Please take off your shirt,” she told him.

This he did without hesitating.

“Oh, Marcus,” she breathed, as if she’d spoken his name a thousand times before. “What happened?”

Four deep gouges ran from the top of his shoulder halfway down his back. They were angry and swollen and looked as if they’d not even begun to close.

“One of those soldier-wolves slashed me. I was trying to draw it off that boy you just helped.” When he spoke the word “soldier,” the hatred in his voice was unmistakable.

“Inside the mine?” she asked.

“Yes. We managed to kill it, but it cost us.”

Céline didn’t ask what it had cost. Right now, she didn’t want to know. “These wounds are on the verge of infection. I need to do a deep cleaning . . . and it’s going to hurt.” She picked up the bottle of poppy syrup. “I want you to drink just a spoonful of this, not enough to put you to sleep, but enough to dull the pain.”

He glanced at the bottle skeptically.

“Do it,” Mercedes ordered him.

Céline poured a wooden spoonful, and he let her feed it to him.

“We need to wait a few moments,” she said, “and let that take effect.”

Mariah appeared in the doorway, looking in. The resemblance between her and her male cousin was astonishing. Then it occurred to Céline that although these three were slender, they weren’t starving. Marcus’s bare shoulders and arms showed lean but developed muscles.

“You helped the children,” Mariah said to Céline. “That was good.”

Her words and speech were so simple that Céline wasn’t certain how to respond for a few seconds. “There wasn’t much I could do. What they need is food.”

“They won’t find much of that here,” Marcus said, “except in the soldiers’ provisions tent.”

“Why don’t you have any animals?” Amelie asked. “Chickens or a milk cow?”

“Can’t afford to buy a cow,” Mercedes answered. “And we ate the last of the chickens years ago, before we even arrived.”

“How many years have you been here?”

“Three.”

Listening to the exchange, even with what little she knew of her mother’s people, Céline couldn’t imagine a group of Móndyalítko remaining in this awful place for three years.

“Where are your horses?” she asked Marcus quietly.

“Gone.” He glanced away. “I hunt for us, and we eat whatever Captain Keegan doesn’t take.” Again, when he said Keegan’s name, the hatred in his voice was thick. “We share what we can with the others here, and Mariah does what she can for the children.”

He looked at Mariah, in the doorway, and she looked back. Something passed between them, but Céline had no idea what.

Picking up the jar of adder’s-tongue ointment and a clean rag, she said, “All right, this won’t be pleasant.”

Turning her attention to his wounds, she remembered that one of the reasons she’d come here was to examine anyone injured by the afflicted soldiers. Judging by the distance between the claw marks on Marcus’s back, whatever had done this to him must have had enormous paws.

She started at the top of his shoulder and began to work her way down. He didn’t gasp or flinch once, and she knew the poppy syrup could not be dulling all the pain. When she finished cleaning all the wounds, she put away the adder’s-tongue and switched to a mixture of ground garlic and ginger in vinegar.

“This is going to sting, but it will ward off infection,” she said, dabbing the mixture onto a clean rag and touching it to his back.