‘I just got the order a few minutes ago! ‘S not my fault!’
Her relief that the shout hadn’t been directed at her caused Lorrie to drop a few inches. She was going to try to swing a few feet to her right and reach the tile roof. As she tried to swing a little to the left, she felt the pain; a sudden, violent burn that was colder than winter ice at the same time, and beneath it all the ugly slicing feeling of being cut.
She’d had accidents with tools and sharp branches before. Not like this. Something very sharp was digging deep into her leg. The hot trickle of her own blood down her leg made her shiver and she gasped at the increased pain even that small movement caused.
That made her want to scream and twist around to grab her leg at the same time; but either of those would mean that she would die.
And Rip will have nobody.
Her head swam a moment, but she fought down dizziness and panted through her mouth. Don’t let go! she commanded herself. She glanced down and saw a seemingly innocuous shard of glass wedged in between the stones. Some glazier had been sloppy in his work and the long piece had fallen from a broken window to wedge hard between stones. Like a crystal dagger it had cut up into Lorrie’s leg. She forced herself to take a deep breath and knew she would have to use every ounce of will and strength to regain the window.
Her hands firmed on the ledge, driving her fingers painfully into the splintery wood. But she couldn’t stay like this: the fall from this height would be a lot more painful than what she was feeling now. Lorrie took a deep breath and hoisted herself up on the window frame. The shrill of agony as her wound was savaged further almost made her lose her grip, rendering her too shocked to even cry out. Once the surprise was over she kept herself from crying out by gritting her teeth and remembering Rip.
If she was caught she might be gaoled, and if she was gaoled she couldn’t help him. I can’t let them catch me, she thought. I have to be strong.
The argument in the street below continued unabated, growing louder, if anything. It was to be hoped it was loud enough to cover the sound of her panting and of her movements as she struggled back into the hidden room. But she needed to move fast, before the yelling attracted people to the windows around her. Lorrie pulled her wounded leg back as far as it would go, but when she hoisted herself up again found it wasn’t quite far enough. She gave one sob of pain and frustration, then continued her progress, even as it tore her leg.
Now she was halfway into the room, hanging from the window at her waist. She breathed in and out through her teeth, fast and desperate, then gave one jerk that almost made her scream and she was free of the protruding glass. As quietly as she could Lorrie scrambled back into the room, sliding down onto the dusty floor, biting the base of her right thumb to keep the screams that forced their way up her throat muffled.
Once she got her breath back she sat up to check the damage.
The sight almost made her faint as the pain had not. A long, deep and jagged cut started just above her knee and ended at her upper thigh. Blood poured from the ripped flesh, already pooling on the floor; the only good thing about it was that it didn’t jet and spurt. The leg moved when she jerked it in horror, so the tendon wasn’t cut. The shard had dug straight into the centre of the muscle. But bleeding that bad could kill her in an hour. A country girl knew about cuts—and how much blood a pig had, which was about the same as a man’s.
Do something! she shouted at herself.
With trembling hands she loosed her water bottle from her belt and poured some onto her leg. It burned like fire and she greyed out for a moment, dropping the bottle. She caught it up quickly, listening to see if someone had noticed the sound. Nothing happened and she looked down at her leg again.
When the blood had been washed away Lorrie was able to see that it needed stitching. She’d once watched her mother sew up Emmet, their man of all work, when his axe had slipped and had listened carefully to her instructions. But this looked a lot worse and she had nothing to use for a needle. And she didn’t have her mother. Lorrie pressed her hand against her mouth, hard. She didn’t have time to cry, she was bleeding, and badly.
Dragging herself over to the bolt of cloth she cut a clean length of it; then she pulled down her trousers and bandaged the leg as tightly as she could, strips around the leg holding a thick pad on the wound. If she couldn’t stitch it up, then she could at least press it together. Maybe that would be enough. Then she pulled up the trousers and lay back down on her makeshift bed.