“No, not my feet. My hand,” and Menolly turned on her side, holding out her scarred hand. She was considerably gratified by the concerned pity in Mirrim’s face as she examined the wound.

“However did you do that?”

“I was gutting packtail, and the knife slipped.”

“You were lucky to miss the tendons.”

“Miss?”

“Well, you are using those fingers. A bit drawn that scar, though,” Mirrim clucked her tongue with professional dismay. “Don’t think much of your Hold’s nursing if that’s any sample.”

“Packtail slime is difficulty as bad as Threadscore in its own way,” Menolly muttered, perversely defending her Hold.

“Be that as it may,” and Mirrim gave the foot bandage a final twitch, “we’ll see you don’t have any such trouble with your feet. Now, I’ll bring you something to eat You must be starved ... ”

Now that the worst of the dressing was over and the numbweed had deadened the pain in her feet, Menolly was definitely aware of the emptiness in her stomach.

“So I’ll be right back, Menolly, and if you need anything after that, just shout for Sanra. She’s below on the Floor, minding the little ones, and she knows she’s to listen for you.”

As Menolly worked her way through the generous meal Mirrim brought, she reflected on some harsh truths. Definitely Mavi had given her the distinct impression that she’d never be able to use her hand again. Yet Mavi was too skilled a healer not to have known that the knife had missed the finger tendons. She had deliberately let the hand heal with drawn flesh. It was painfully clear to Menolly that Mavi, as well as Yanus, had not wanted her to be able to play again.

Grimly Menolly vowed that she’d never, never return to Half-Circle. Her reflections made her doubt Manora’s assurance that she could stay at Benden Weyr. No matter, she could run away again. Run she could, and live holdless. And that’s what she’d do. Why, she’d run across all Pern ... And why not? Menolly became pleased with the notion. Indeed, there was nothing to stop her running right to the Masterharperhall in Fort Hold. Maybe Petiron had sent her songs to Masterharper Robinton. Maybe they were more than just twiddles. Maybe ... but there was no maybe about returning to Half-Circle Hold! That she would not do.

The issue did not arise over the next few days while her feet itched—Mirrim said that was a good sign of healing—and she found herself beginning to fret with impatience at her disability.