Mari's Mistake - Ruby Dixon Page 0,36
know. I don’t feel like much of anything, if I’m being honest with myself. I’m not upset. I’m not worried. I’m not even exhausted. I’m just kind of…there. “I think I’m fine?”
As fine as I can be.
She smiles brightly. “That’s a good sign. Okay. Now let’s get T’chai’s to relax and then the healing can begin.”
I rub my chest as she puts her hands on T’chai’s sunken chest. His scars are livid against his blue skin, Frankenstein slashes that show just how badly R’jaal and I stitched him up. It’s amazing he’s lived for so long.
T’chai’s hand twitches on the furs, and I reach for it out of habit. The moment I do, I feel…strange. His touch doesn’t feel dear to me; it’s off-putting. I notice the irritating rasp of calluses and how he’s too warm. His scent bothers me. In fact, all of it bothers me.
Which is odd. It’s kind of like touching velvet the wrong way. It’s not bad, just…unpleasant. I want to put down his hand, but I don’t.
I watch as Veronica’s face tightens and T’chai’s khui gives a dramatic, hard sound, almost as if in protest. It’s an upsetting sound, or at least, I think it should be. But I just feel very detached from it, and when it goes quiet, I feel relieved.
It’ll all be worth it, I tell myself, if he lives.
If T’chai lives, he can heal up and we can start over. The important thing is that he lives. Nothing else matters.
11
Months Later
T’CHAI
Even though wood is now growing scarce on this side of the world, I have kept a large, heavy chunk. It is made from a three-leaf tree, one that I passed many times when I walked the trails near my home. It still smells like the warm island, with its muggy air and permanently damp soil. That is not why I keep it, though. I lift the arm-length hunk of wood and then slowly, carefully, lift it over my head. I lower it again, and then lift it once more, feeling my muscles pull as I do. My joints feel tight and do not move like they used to, but every day, they get better. My long recovery has changed my body. There are now scars all over my chest and stomach, and my limbs had shrunk down to wasted shadows of their former selves.
So I practice moving and stretching every day. A'tar—the dragon one—gives me suggestions on strength-building exercises, and I do them faithfully. Sweat drips from my brow as I lift and lower the heavy wood, over and over again. When I tremble all over with exhaustion, I set it down, hands on hips, and take deep breaths to recover, pacing in my hut. I flex my arm, studying my muscles. I am vain enough that I like that I no longer have skinny, wiry limbs. With the plentiful food here in this cold land, there are many different kinds of meats and foods to eat, and there is no rationing. My once-wiry body has filled out to stronger bulk, but it is not perfect. Not yet.
I run a hand down my flat abdomen and wonder if M'rsl appreciates the way I look now.
Mari, I remind myself. She prefers Mah-ree, not Mah-ree-sowl or the respectful slurring of names that my people do. I push aside the flap that separates her half of the hut from my half of the hut, but her heavy, warm wraps are still in place. She is somewhere nearby, then. If she had gone hunting, she would have bundled up. I can guess where she is, and the thought fills me with a sense of jealousy that she prefers to spend her time with others instead of me.
Then again, nothing has been right between us since we landed on this cold shore. I am disappointed, but not surprised.
"T'chai! Brother!" S'bren's booming voice calls from outside the hut.
I move to the front entrance of our hut—a spacious place made from driftwood from our old island home and a peaked roof made from skins. It is very different from my last home, right down to the wooden platform that keeps us off the cold sands. The moment I step outside of my hut and onto the platform, the breeze hits me, making the sweat on my chest feel like ice. I shudder, wiping at my skin. I will never get used to this cold, frozen air, so different from my home. It has been another thing to