Rosemary and Rue

The pain hadn’t returned; except for the couch springs poking me in the small of the back, I felt fine. That worried me. It might mean I was finally too broken to fix. “Can I walk?”


Turning back to me, Devin smiled, eyes still sad. “Would I be trying to keep you here if you couldn’t walk?” he asked, and offered his hands. “Get up. There’s a mirror in the bathroom.”

Getting up was easier said than done, even with his help. Once I was upright, I kept hold of his hands, waiting for the world to stop swimming in and out of focus. At least my legs were doing what I told them to.

“I got it,” I said, letting go and turning to stumble toward the door.

Going from the well-lit office to the dark hall was disorienting. My toes caught on the doorframe, and I tripped, catching myself against the wall with my left arm. I froze, staring at my outflung arm. Nothing hurt. Not my leg, not my shoulder, nothing.

Another unpleasant thought hit me as I pushed myself away from the wall as slowly as I could manage without overbalancing. What time was it? I’d promised Sylvester that I’d call if I needed help, and that was before I went and got myself shot. He had to be frantic with worry.

I could call once I knew how bad the damage was. Opening the door to the women’s bathroom, I stepped inside.

The only difference between the bathrooms at Home is that the men’s room gets better graffiti and the women’s room is quieter. The men’s room also has a working urinal—the one in the women’s room was spray-painted purple and filled with cement before I came to live there. I don’t know why, but I’m sure that there was a lot of beer involved. A Gwragen half-blood was slouching against the sink, a cigarette dangling from her candy-apple red lips. The color was definitely not lipstick. She straightened as I entered, dropping her cigarette to the tile floor and making a hasty exit. I watched her go, blinking. Root and branch, was I that frightening?

Steeling myself, I turned to risk a glance in the mirror. I was ready for anything, except what I actually saw.

“What the . . . ?”

The change Toby’s clothes while she’s asleep trend had continued: my bloody bathrobe was gone, replaced by a gauzy purple nightgown probably purchased from the sort of catalog that came wrapped in brown paper. It was ankle-length, but left my shoulders—more than just my shoulders—bare. That might have bothered me, but I was too busy taking in the view to care.

My hair was tied in a ponytail, uncovering my face and neck. The dark circles under my eyes were gone, and my skin was smooth, not even bruised. I still looked like death warmed over, but it wasn’t an immediate death anymore; more like something found in a ditch.

A knot of scar tissue marked my left shoulder, exactly where I expected the gunshot wound to be. There was no pain. Slowly, I pulled up the nightgown and bared my right leg to the hip. The bullet hole through my thigh had been healed the same way. No wonder I could walk: as far as my legs knew, they were fine. Devin somehow managed to patch me up all the way while I was out.

Of course there were scars. There’s no magic in the world that can heal iron without leaving a scar.

I paused, registering the other thing that had changed. My head was clear. Whatever healed the gunshot wounds also managed to cure my iron poisoning. I didn’t think that was possible. How could that be possible?

The taste of roses tickled the back of my throat. I stiffened. “Oh, no, not now . . .”