“She’s right here,” Oskar says, and by his movements I know he’s untying the ropes around his waist and chest. They fall away one after the other, and then he lowers himself to his knees. My world cants crazily as he slides the straps of the game bag down his arms, and then I’m on my side on a cold, rocky floor. It feels good. I’m burning from the inside out. Oskar opens the bag and pulls it away from my face. I can’t focus my eyes. All I can see is the dim glow of a fire and shadows dancing on wet rock walls.
“Try a waltz,” I murmur. Mim taught me once, and we spent all evening giggling and twirling, and the world is spinning like that right now. Thinking of her makes my throat so tight that it’s hard to breathe, and I let out a choked sob.
Oskar places the backs of his fingers against my cheek and curses. “She’s got such a fever.”
“I haven’t seen this one before,” Raimo says.
Oskar is staring at someone just out of my line of sight. “Found her in the north woods, maybe an hour’s hike from the city.”
Raimo makes an annoyed sound in his throat. “And what will you give me in return for my help?”
“Full beaver pelt,” says Oskar.
Raimo scoffs, “You insult me.”
“Two, then.”
“Take her away, boy. My cards await.”
“The next bear I take down,” Oskar snaps. “Meat and pelt.”
“You know that’s not what I want.”
“The answer is no.”
“Then take. Her. Away.”
“She’ll die!” Oskar shouts, his voice ringing through the cave.
“People die every day, boy, especially here. You have to stop collecting strays.”
“I recall you saying the same thing about Sig at first.”
“That kind of lightning doesn’t strike twice, as has been proven every time you’ve brought some other lost, sickly soul here to foist upon me. It’s been at least one each year, and you used up your allotment this past spring when you dragged Josefina in from the marshes. That mad old bat was a handful—and not an experience I’m eager to repeat, at any price.” He’s quiet for a moment before adding, “Except one.”
Oskar crosses his arms over his chest. “I’ll do it,” he says from between clenched teeth. “Just me, though. Not Freya. And you’ll stay quiet about it, or . . . I’ll kill you.”
Raimo’s laugh echoes loudly, making me wish I had the strength to cover my ears. “I have no interest in your sister, and you have no idea how silly you sound. But you have my word. It stays between us until you decide otherwise—or necessity dictates.”
“Oskar,” I whisper. “It’s all right.” I have no idea what he’s offering in exchange for Raimo’s help, but it sounds like it’s killing him.
“Where do you want her?” he asks, ignoring me.
“Over there. What’s wrong with her?”
Oskar lugs me across the cavern. He sets me down on something soft, making sure to place me on my side instead of on my back. “Lost two fingers in a bear trap. But she wasn’t in good shape before then. She’d been whipped, I think.”
“You think?” Raimo’s voice is much closer now, and it makes me shudder.
“I didn’t strip her naked and check,” Oskar says drily. “But she’d bled through, and I know what lash marks look like. I assume she was a servant in the town. Her dress is plain but well-made, and she’s got some meat on her bones.”
“A runaway maid. How romantic,” says Raimo. “Well, take your bag and go. I should have her fixed up by morning.”
By morning? As nice as that would be, I think it’s going to take longer than that.
But Oskar doesn’t seem surprised—he tugs the bag loose and carefully folds my ruined hand over my chest, then straightens my aching legs. His strong fingers close right over my blood-flame mark, and it pulses another wave of numb through my body.
“So you’ll help her,” he says, sounding hesitant. “You’ll do your best for her.”
“No, boy, I’ll butcher her and make myself a nice stew. Get back to your mother. Oh, and tell her thank you for the rye loaf, by the way. It was delicious.”
Oskar leans over me. His face is smeared with grime and sweat. “Raimo’s going to fix you up, Elli,” he says softly. “I’ll check on you later.” He touches the back of my left hand, his fingers cool, his voice kind.
I doubt I’ll see him again. My mouth is filled with the copper-iron taste of blood, and I think that means I’m going to die. I want to tell him thanks for trying, but I’m too tired to speak. He gets up and walks out. His footsteps fade soon after.
Another face leans over mine. Bald except for two tufts of white hair above his ears. Sunken cheeks. A prominent chin, from which hangs a stringy white beard. A long, hooked nose. Clever, calculating ice-blue eyes. “Name?” he asks.
“Elli,” I whisper.
“All right, Elli the runaway maid.” He clucks his tongue. “Let’s see the hand.”