The hostile expression turned downright volcanic. “Don’t you be dismissing me so. The same goddess blood runs in me veins, and I can see to his wounds well enough, thank you very much.”
My eyes narrowed on her oval face, which appeared pale as porcelain within a frame of deep auburn hair. “What will you do exactly?” I asked. As Sean had lost consciousness, he would possess no memory of who healed him. Even so, I wasn’t about to turn his care over to Marin until she demonstrated the necessary competence beyond a fiery temper and blistering tongue.
“What do you think? I’ll settle the nerves and mend the skin over the bones.”
I lifted a brow. “And the hand? Can you reattach it?”
A snort cut through her nose. “Are you mad? No one can do that sort of healing anymore. Not for hundreds o’ years now.”
There was a pause as I weighed my next words. Other than Henry, only two men remained nearby, the one with the stunned arms, who was busy mumbling to himself, and the other supporting Sean’s weight. Though distracted, both were close enough to hear every word I exchanged with the woman if they were paying attention. But she hadn’t held back from voicing her bloodline, leaving me to believe the men were goddess born themselves.
So be it. I would forge ahead in a similar manner. “Well, I can, but only if someone fetches the hand before it dies.”
Marin blinked several times, clearly surprised by the claim. “Can you really?”
In truth, I’d only ever reattached a partially severed toe that had been struck by a sickle during the wheat harvest. The boy never knew the full extent of the wound since I’d been the one to remove the damaged boot and had the bone knitted back together before the foot saw the light of day. An entire hand posed a greater challenge, though nothing impossible by my estimation. Bolstered by the thought, I nodded in what I hoped to be a confident manner.
The man behind Sean sucked in a sharp breath, a clear indication that he had indeed been paying close attention. I glanced at him, but he quickly averted his dark gaze to Marin. “Did you see where the hand went off to?” he asked her.
Marin shook her head. “No, Brian, me eyes were on Sean the whole time. It can’t have gone too far though.”
“Near the tavern,” Henry offered, matter-of-factly. “The sword fell on the road next to the ale cart. If I’m not mistaken, the hand was still attached.”
A scowl pinched Brian’s face, no doubt from the unwelcome reminder of Henry’s part in wounding my brother. With considerable effort, he kept his eyes on the level and swallowed back what appeared to be a curse the size of a goat. “Go get it, lass,” he said to Marin, “afore the dogs carry it off.”
Pushing to her feet, she dashed across the road. Brian shifted his weight, earning a soft groan from Sean. Pain contorted his ashen face, and he groaned again in fleeting awareness.
Brigid’s fire rushed unbidden to my fingertips, which I placed on Sean’s forearm near the end of his stump. Heat seeped through his skin to deaden the nerves beneath. The effect was immediate, and Sean relaxed once more.
He had aged some in the past three years, his face thinning from boyhood to the harder lines of a man’s. Still, in so many ways he looked exactly the same, and if not for the empty pocket carved in my heart, I could have convinced myself that only a few months had passed since we’d last met.
Without warning, my eyes burned with the threat of tears. “Oh, Sean,” I whispered. “You shouldn’t have left us for so long.” A single tear slipped free. I sniffed and brushed it away.
Brian cleared his throat. “All the time Sean’s been here, he never talked of any sisters. Never talked of anyone for that matter, other than his dead mam.”
It took a second for the softly spoken words to register. But once they did, their meaning pierced the very center my chest. My head snapped up. “What do you mean?”
“Sean’s been in Ireland nigh on three years,” he continued in the same soft voice, “and I just learned that you existed this morning when we overheard the Englishman asking around for a Selah Kilbrid.”
Henry moved closer until his knees brushed against my back. “Watch yourself,” he warned in a low growl.
I placed a restraining hand on his calf. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Thought you’d want to know,” he said after a moment.
Another question formed on my tongue, but Marin’s return set it back. Kneeling beside me, she let out a fold of her cloak, and Sean’s hand tumbled into his lap, coming to rest palm-down in the crook of one leg. It had been severed right above the wrist, and two bones, the ulna and radius, peeked out from layers of skin and muscle. Blood crusted the skin, with the fingers still curled from gripping the sword handle. Otherwise, it appeared in excellent condition, much like it had simply snapped off.
The similarity was too strong to ignore, and just like that, a sudden swell of anger hit the back of my throat.