“You’re burning,” she utters, and I feel the back of her fingers against my forehead.
“I’m just tired,” I say, or try to say, but the words slur at the edges. The room is tilting. There’s a distant clatter… then, I’m moving.
There are arms under mine, myown feet barely supporting my weight. Wool against my thin shirt—a hallway, then a narrow stair.
Her breath hitches, soft curses in Chinese. My head rolls against her shoulder before everything folds inward.
For the firsttime in over thirty days, my sleep is not impeded by nightmares of my father vomiting blood as the men who swarm us stab him repeatedly with a wooden bayonet.Run, he gargles, just before I wake up.
But the world here is dim, and Annie the seamstress is on my lips, my tongue, my fingers. On my still-pounding teeth, although the pain in my temples has been since replaced by a dull headache.
“I can smell you,” I groan. “Everywhere.” What an odd thing to say, yet it is the first thing that escapes my mouth.
I might’ve dreamt it. Hopefully that was the case.
“Well, youhavebeen sleeping in my bed.”
My eyes open, and I turn on my side to feel for her.
Annie isn’t there, but at the foot of the bed I’m cocooned upon, perched on what appears to be a large trunk. Her coat hangs on the rack near the door in the corner of the room. A bundle of fabric is on her lap, and her tiny fingers work fluidly with a needle and thread. There’s a mirror to her right, propped diagonally from the corner and looking into the room.
“How long?” I peer out the window behind me. It’s dark, and the lamps are on, but the streets aren’t nearly as empty as I’d expect them to be closer to midnight.
“Three hours.”
I sit up, and it’s at this moment I realize I’m shirtless. “What are you doing?”
“You asked for pants earlier in the shop. Here they are.”
I run my hand across my bare torso, no longer wet or fevered. I’m wearing only my drawers beneath the thick blanket, which I pull further up to keep myself decent as I shrink back into her pillows.
“Don’t worry. Amah took care of you.”
“How comforting.”
“You fell asleep in your bowl ofjuk.” She withholds a laugh. “Spilt half of it all over your crotch.”
“I finished the bowl. It was delicious.”
“No, you had a few bites then passed out.”
I rub my eyes, not about to argue. If she’s right, it’s probably why I’m still starving. Despite the acid eating my stomach, I feel rejuvenated by the sleep. Strong.
Annie brings the thread to her mouth and snaps it between her teeth. “Here.” She stands. “Get up.”
I can already tell by the ghost of her form beneath her clothes, and the pair of black trousers she holds up—ones that aren’t my own—that this is a bad idea. I scramble for an excuse.
Anything other than,I refuse to stand before you because I am ragingly stiff in this loose pair of undergarments.
But Annie respects my wishes and drapes the pants over my chest. “They were my uncle’s. He and my mother died a few years ago in a carriage incident.” She clears her throat, as if it embarrasses her to overshare. “They were large for you, so I made some light adjustments while you slept.”
“Thank you,” I mutter. She’s beautiful. Kind. Smart. Terrifying, of course—but generous. “This isn’t the pair he… he erm?—”
Annie dissolves into a fit of laughter, already turning for the door. The richness of her voice and the very sound of her joy send me into stark panic. “They’re new, I don’t think he’d ever worn them.” Her hand goes for the knob, but an unsure sound forms at theback of my throat.
“You don’t have to go. Not if you don’t want to.”
Her fingers linger on the doorknob. But she doesn’t leave.
