Black Scales IX: I've Already Had My Bath This Year

The more of the bandage Garrick unwrapped, the worse the clenching in his chest. Fear and Guilt squeezed and squoze, milking his heart viciously with cold hands.

She was his little girl, all he had left, and look what had happened to her! What he had allowed to happen. How had he ever let it get so bad? When had he last unbound it? Serena would never have let it come to this. It would be a miracle if Orla didn't lose this arm.

He tapped an area of blackened skin on her wrist. It felt light and hard, like wood that has been burnt through but still holds its shape. Orla didn't move, didn't react in any way.

"Does that not hurt?"

Orla shook her head.

He tapped again, watching her face. Nothing.

No pain, which was unsettling enough, but no fear either. Mild curiosity, and oddly detached, as if this weren't her own arm. When he tapped somewhere else, skin that looked red as if it had been scalded, he was almost relieved to see her flinch.

The affected area was noticeably larger than it had been. It had inched beyond the first marking the witch had made, but not yet grown anywhere close to the second. That, at least, was a relief. Orla was right, it seemed; binding it was slowing the spread of whatever it was, but not the change in the skin already affected.

And her blood? And bones?

Blood flows, even the simplest of folks know that. Over time... this thing was moving around her body, eating away at her, changing her...

He felt a sudden urge to hold on to her, and not let her go, as if by holding her tight enough he could stop her from changing into something unrecognisable right in front of his eyes.

Failing that, he wanted to clean this up and get it bound again, as tight and as fast as possible.

He pulled his hands back away from the table, and the grotesque mess that was her arm. His fingers flexed.

"You should bathe," he said. "I'll get the tub."

Orla's whipped round to look at him in surprise at him, a darting movement like a startled snake.

"Didn't I just, then? You said I did. With ice."

"Won't hurt to try again. Get that fever down. We'll try while the bandage is off."

+

"Are you in yet?"

"Not yet, Da. It's cold. Real cold."

"Well, hurry. Tell me when you're in."

"Is there anymore... you know, like your arm?"

"No, Da."

"Nothing on your legs? Your feet? Your.... anywhere else?"

"Nothing, Da. I'm in now."

He couldn't see any worrying marks on her back, nor on her neck when he lifted her hair off it.

The hairbrush was on top of Orla's clothes. Garrick retrieved it, dragged over a stool, and sat behind her. The heat radiated off her, even in a tub of cold water.

He teased out the knots as gently as he could, eyes sharp for any changes to the skin on her scalp. Orla hugged her knees and didn't say anything.

The moment we are done here, she will dress, pick up her stick, and be off... no matter what I say.

It was a hollow thought. Empty and rotten, where anger should have been. He chewed it back down and concentrated on the tangles.

After a while, the water started to steam.

+

Alone at last, her hair braided clumsily, and pinned on top of her head to keep it clear of the water, Orla waited for the tears that itched her eyes to flow. Having her hair brushed like that made the years dissolve, like tears on a hot pan. If he'd hummed, like Ma used to, that would have done it for sure. Broken the salt barrier.

It wasn't so bad in the tub, now. Having got used to it, the water felt warm.

Orla soaked until her skin wrinkled, and the edge of the tub dug into the nape of her neck. When she stood up, her skin felt cool. Orla had forgotten what that felt like. She examined the sensation from all angles, and considered soaking a bit longer, and then standing to feel it again. No need. I don't miss it.

She stepped out, and gathered up her clothes. Her staff seemed to wink at her from its spot by the door. Let's go, it seemed to say. Meet Brenna. Swim in the lake. Forget about Jenson, and Changing.

What could he even do to stop her? Nothing. He wasn't even here. He had gone to fetch the witch.

"Mind you're still here when we get back," he'd said, his voice as stern as his eyes.

He could beat her, maybe, afterwards. For her disobedience. He had a temper, and he'd done it before, especially when he was desperate and she had failed at the Scouring too many nights in a row. But could he, with her arm looking like this? Orla couldn't quite explain it, even to herself, but she had a feeling he wouldn't.

Orla turned her back on the staff, went to the bedroom, and lay down on the bed.

Tomorrow, she'd go. Probably the next day, as well. Just not today. She could. Easily. But it would reduce him a bit more, make him smaller, make him a little less Da. It would take something from her, too. From whatever was between them still. They were all they had.

That's not true for me. Not anymore. I have Brenna, now. But he has no one. Except Elsie, and the baby he's never seen. She might never come back, though. So it's just us.

There was still enough of Orla-the-daughter left to mind that, and want to delay the vanishing of that part of herself.

It was fully dark now. The other children might have finished their Scouring tonight by now. Maybe they were already back home. Emptying their pockets. Getting hugged tight, going to bed. The better off kids might be eating supper first, if they'd managed to bring anything home.

Orla wasn't used to sleeping at this hour. No; around now she would be loading the ratty little basket, with her own supper if she had nothing else, and hurrying back to the lake, where Brenna waited.

Instead she lay on her back and stared into the dark, waiting.

+

Orla fell into sleep eventually, and even after such a long bath, still slept as badly as she had done every night lately. There was no space. It was so hot. Hot and sharp. She could hardly move, and when she moved it hurt...

The noise of someone outside snapped her awake in an instant. She stiffened, cursing her own stupidity that had her leave the staff by the door.

It's probably just Da.

That was the dull voice, what Orla thought of as the grown-up voice. The unimaginative part of her mind that thought up the most boring, and reassuring answer possible to any kind of question. Tonight, she ignored it. She knew good and well what Da sounded like, and that was not him. He was fetching the witch; he said so. That meant there should be two people, and she could only hear one.

She moved off the bed silently, and back towards the kitchen, one cat-soft step at a time. Ears straining for a clue who it might be, and whether he was a threat.

It might be Jenson, said the child voice. The child voice came up with the stupidest, most creative, and scariest ideas. It was best to scoff at it, and then ignore it, with as much determination as possible.

Ridiculous! Ghosts don't sound like that. They don't bump or clatter, or make footstep-noises. They float and go through.

There was a knock.

Orla covered the kitchen in two strides, or so it felt like, and snatched up her staff. It could be Brenna. Maybe Brenna had found out where she lived, and she had got tired of waiting. Got worried.

Thinking of Brenna made Orla level the staff so that a harsh jab would power straight into an intruder's face. Or throat.

Another knock.

"Ummm, hello? Miss? Are you there? Are you decent?"

That definitely wasn't Brenna.

Orla cracked the door open, keeping the staff level, and adjusting her aim to account for the boy's height.

"I'm here, if it's me you're looking for. Who are you?"

++++

Thank you for reading.

The story started here:

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