Touch of Iron (The Living Blade #1) by Timandra Whitecastle Page B

kitchen. Why was she in the kitchen? What was she doing on the table? She was in her house on the Ridge. Soot and blackened burns showed on the ceiling above. As if from fire.
    The fire, the inn, all those men! Her shoulder throbbed where the arrow had pierced her flesh. And she lay in the furs that had been in the treasure pile.
    Panic caught in her throat and she kicked at the furs, rolling off the table. Escape! She had to escape. She was in her kitchen, on the floor. She searched frantically for her knife, but it was gone. A figure stood between her and the open space where the door to the garden had once been. It didn’t matter. She could escape through the smithy, past the forge.
    Only she couldn’t, could she? The leather apron, the body without its head, the burned fingers in the cold ash. The patch. The patch she had sewn on his shirt. She couldn’t flee past the forge. Couldn’t go in there again.
    Someone was talking to her, trying to guide her back to the table.
    “It’s all right. You’re safe now. Noraya! You’re safe now.”
    “No! No. Don’t touch me! I can’t stay here!”
    She broke loose from the grip and knew it was a bad idea. The ground couldn’t really shift under her feet, yet it certainly felt as if it were doing so. She stumbled and instinctively held out her arms to break the fall. The pain exploded in her right shoulder again, and she saw black and white stars in front of her eyes as she clutched her arm and howled like a wounded animal.
    When she came to, she was on the table once more and the baker’s wife was hunched over her. Her eyes were dark blue and her lips were pressed thin.
    Nora stared at the other woman.
    “You’re safe now,” Sallima repeated. “But you need more rest. I stitched your shoulder for you after pulling the arrow. It was barbed.” She held her hand out and Nora automatically lifted her head to look. The dark gray arrowhead had a dull gleam to it. The ends were curved like a fisherman’s hook. Nora shuddered and went back to staring at Sallima.
    “I’m home.” Nora’s voice had a rasp. She tried clearing her throat and repeating what she had said, but the rasp stayed. She sounded like the master wight.
    “Yes. The inn was burning, so I dragged you over to this place. Most of it is still intact.” Sallima knocked on the wall. “You can thank me later.”
    “Thank you?”
    “For saving your life.”
    Sallima checked Nora’s forehead for fever. Her hand was smooth and dry on Nora’s skin. It smelled of yeast and garlic. It was a motherly gesture that came natural to the baker’s wife. She snatched her hand away before Nora slapped at it.
    “For saving—” Nora propped herself up on an elbow. “I saved your life! You should be saying thank-you!”
    Sallima shrugged her shoulders.
    “Should I? Well, thank you. Happy now?”
    There was a long pause as Nora tried to find words. Her mouth opened and shut a few times. Then Sallima turned and busied herself in the kitchen. Nora watched as the short woman lit the stove and found the kettle. She went outside to fill it with water and came back in humming a lullaby. It seemed she was going to make tea. Sallima stood ramrod straight at the stove while the water boiled, staring out into the garden. She kept pulling a woolen shawl over her tiny shoulders.
    “Why are you here?” Nora’s tongue felt heavy. It was cumbersome to talk. “Why did you come back for me? You don’t even like me.”
    The woman shrugged again.
    “It was the right thing to do.”
    “The right thing,” Nora repeated.
    “Yes.”
    They looked at each other. Nora started to laugh. It sounded cold and hollow and foreign to her ears. Sallima wrinkled her nose as though she smelled something distasteful.
    “What’s so funny?” she wanted to know.
    “You are!” Nora’s injured arm rested over her stomach. As she laughed, she clutched her ribs, grimacing at the pain. Moving her hand hurt her shoulder. “You come here from