Wren shook his head. His legs felt hollow and his face hot, and when he shook his head it made him dizzy. “My head hurts a little. We fell. And my ankle.”
The guardsmen formed a timid semicircle around the others, waiting quietly for some kind of orders or direction. Cass gently ran her hands over Wren’s head and when she reached low on the back of it, he winced and jerked away from a stab of pain where she brushed over a wound. When she brought her hands back, the fingertips of one were stained wet crimson.
“Lane,” she said to one of the nearby guards, “would you go get Mouse for us? Ask him to bring his kit?”
“Sure thing, Miss Cass,” Lane said, with a quick nod. He turned and hurried off down the hall.
“You might need a stitch or two,” she said. Then she motioned with a hand and caught Able’s attention. “How’s the girl?”
Able shook his head slightly. Dying, he signed with his hands. But not dead yet.
At least that’s how Wren interpreted it. He still had a little trouble following some of Able’s faster signs, and everything was starting to feel fuzzy. He pulled away from his mother and approached the girl.
“Careful, Wren,” said his mother, but she didn’t restrain him.
Able held up a cautionary hand as he drew near. Wren nodded and crouched next to Able, careful to keep the man between him and the girl. From here he could see she was taking quick, jagged breaths, almost like hiccups. Weeping. Or maybe struggling for air. Able rolled her gently onto her side. There was blood in her mouth and fear in her eyes. Able brushed the hair back from her face, an almost tender gesture.
She was a few years older than Wren. Thirteen, maybe fourteen, with hazel eyes and a splash of freckles across her nose and cheekbones. Too thin. Wren wondered when the last time was she’d had a meal. Without understanding why, he felt emotion clawing up his throat.
“It’s OK,” he said to her. Her wild eyes bounced between Able and him. “It’s OK. We’re going to get you some help.”
Mama was next to him now, kneeling at his side. Able handed her something, and as she was examining it, Wren recognized it as the handle to the girl’s knife. The blade was gone. After a moment, Mama turned to him.
“Wren, she doesn’t have much time. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do for her now.”
“What about Mouse?” he asked.
Cass shook her head, and held out the knife hilt for him to see. She pointed to a section of the hilt, showed him how it twisted. “There’s a charge in the blade. This makes it explode.”
Wren understood then. Rather than be taken, the girl had chosen to detonate the blade inside herself. Why would she do that? Did she think they would torture her or something? For a brief instant, he wondered if it was out of fear of capture or because of some expected consequence of failure. He turned back to her. “I don’t understand. I don’t know what I did. But I’m sorry. I’m sorry for whatever it was.”
Her eyes locked on his as he spoke. Her lips moved, but no sound came except that of her thin, labored breath.
“It’s OK. I know you had a reason,” he said. “It’s OK. I forgive you.”
The girl’s eyes softened, tears welled. She raised a weak hand towards him, but Able instinctively caught it at the wrist, held it fast. Still, she never took her eyes off of Wren. Again her lips moved, so pale now he could barely distinguish them from the rest of her ashen face. But the damage was too severe and no matter how much the girl might have willed it, her message to Wren went unheard. As Lane and Mouse came running down the hall, her eyes darkened and her hand went limp in Able’s grasp. And there, on the floor of Wren’s bedroom, a girl that should’ve been blossoming into life died instead.
Tears broke from Wren, and he felt sick. He gagged once, then again, but only sobs came. Cass wrapped him in a strong embrace. She tried to turn his face away from the girl’s body, but he pulled her hand off, and continued to stare at the girl on the floor of his room.
“Why, Mama? Why did this have to happen?”
Cass replied, “I don’t know, sweetheart. But it wasn’t something you did. It wasn’t your fault, OK? It wasn’t your fault.”
It came crashing down then, the fear, the relief, the guilt, the horror. Wren let himself cry, let the flood of emotions overtake him while Able rolled the girl gently to her back. Mouse came and knelt by her for a moment, making her seem even smaller and more fragile next to his hulking frame. He spoke in low tones to Able, who signed in response. Wren didn’t even try to follow them.
Cass picked him up and carried him across the hall to her own room, and together they sat on her bed, door open, with the light from the hall spilling in. After a few minutes, Mouse and Able came in together. Able stood quietly by the door while Mouse gave Wren a quick examination and cleaned up the wound on the back of his head.