I twisted away from Mikhail, my sobs cracking into anguished wheezing. Suddenly, the wagon lurched to a halt, and a fiery radiance spilled into the bed of the wagon. Low voices and laughter echoed in my ears.

“Wait here with them,” Dronov said, rose to his feet, and climbed down from the wagon. “I’ll find a medic.”

“Understood, sir,” Ilyich said, his gaze flickering toward me. He had wide-set, watery blue eyes framed by paunchy lids, like the eyes of a catfish. His sagging mouth and thin, wilted mustache only added to the impression.

I despised him.

Minutes later, rapid footsteps crunched through the leaves beyond the wagon.

“Where is he?” a familiar voice said.

I cracked open my eyes as Zemfirka climbed into the wagon. She froze as still as a deer in lantern light, her jet eyes widening behind her gunmetal-rimmed glasses.

“Is something wrong?” Dronov snapped as she rested her canvas medic’s satchel on the floor.

“No, sir.” Carefully, she knelt down beside me and turned Mikhail onto his back. His head lolled senselessly to the side, eyes closed and lips crusted with blood. Averting her eyes from my pleading gaze, she pressed her fingers beneath his jawline, waiting a moment before turning to Dronov. “It’s too risky to move him in his condition without first stabilizing the bleeding. I’ll need boiled water and clean rags.”

“Do you hear her?” Dronov turned to Ilyich. “What are you waiting for? Go get them.”

“Understood, sir.” Ilyich clambered down from the wagon and offered the lieutenant a hasty salute before hurrying off.

“I’ll also need a bottle of iodine and two rolls of gauze,” Zemfirka said. “They’re still in the tent.”

“Do I look like a handmaid to you?” Dronov snarled.

“With all due respect, we don’t have time for this, sir.” Behind her round glasses, her eyes blinked, cool and unperturbed. “I need to immediately begin stabilizing the bleeding.”

“Fine, just don’t untie either of them. Don’t even talk to them.” Raking a hand through his coarse brown hair, he swiveled around and strode off in the direction he had come.

As soon as Dronov was out of sight, Zemfirka opened her medic’s bag and rooted through it. Her gaze flicked to me twice, but she didn’t speak to me or try lowering my gag before devoting her full attention to Mikhail’s wound. She began by cutting away the sleeve of his jacket and unraveling the bandages I had wrapped around his arm and chest.

My breath caught in my throat. Beneath the gauze, blood coursed from the gunshot wound ravaging his shoulder. My careful embroidery hung in tatters, reduced to a snarl of loose thread.

Zemfirka’s fingertips traced over the torn embroidery. “Is this your work, Toma?”

I nodded rapidly, my tongue straining against the gag. I can help, I tried to say, but all that came out was a low, plaintive groan.

“I recognize it from your rushnyk.” She reached over and slipped the rope down to my chin.