It wasn’t until he cut away from the highway and up the valley toward the village that the last sounds of the chaos truly fell away. By the time he dragged himself down the main street of the village under the lightening sky of dawn, the world seemed almost normal. Quiet. Tranquil. The dusty street was empty, breath held. He slid down it, Olena so very limp and cool against him. He set her down on the street in front of the Handsmith’s house. He hated the way her head lolled, the way her arms and legs flopped. He told himself that she wasn’t dead. Not yet. Not yet.

He slithered away to pound on the Handsmith’s door. “Jyrgal! Jyrgal! It’s Marcus. Please help me!” He kept up his pounding on the frail door until it opened. Jyrgal looked warily out at him, wearing only a long nightshirt. The amorphous stubs of his hands were uncovered, writhing. His wife stood behind him, looking frightened.

“Olena’s dying,” Marcus said. “She’s cold and barely breathing. She needs Nurassyl.”

The man stared at him, perplexed and, of course, not understanding his English. Marcus grasped him by the arms. He pulled him through the doorway and pointed at Olena. Jyrgal said something under his breath and rushed to her. He knelt beside her, checked her pulse, her forehead. He looked back up at Marcus. He wanted, Marcus knew, to understand what was wrong with her. Even if they spoke the same language, what could Marcus say? That he’d poisoned her to save her? And how could he convey what he’d been trying to save her from? He couldn’t explain anything, so he just pleaded, “Please. Bring Nurassyl. Please…”

The Handsmith glanced back toward his house, taking everyone’s eyes with him. Aliya stood in the doorway, Nurassyl half hidden behind her, pressed tight to her hip, his large eyes wide with concern. Marcus called gently to the joker boy. “Nurassyl, please come. She needs you.” The boy stared at him, his mouth an oval as round as his eyes. Marcus pointed at his tentacled hands. He mimed his healing touch. He pointed to his own cuts and burns, touching them, and then pointed to Olena. “But not me,” he said. “Her. Heal her.” He didn’t know how to act that part out, so he gestured toward her, beseeching, letting the unconscious evidence of her speak for him.