her inability to help. She had been taking care of me, but even the best nurse can only do so much for a broken rib.
“Let us see! Lie down!” she said excitedly.
I did as she asked, and she pulled up my shirt. She bit her finger and squeezed a few red drops over my bruised ribs, rubbing the blood over my skin like an ointment. Then she sat back while we both watched with groundless anticipation. But nothing happened. Her blood barely penetrated my skin.
She looked at me with fierce determination in her eyes. And without a word she grazed her wrist against her teeth, making a small gash. She brought it to my lips, but I moved back, instinctively.
“Drink,” she commanded.
“But I….”
“Please. You will be not be harmed, I promise.”
Again I followed her command. I closed my lips around the wound on her wrist and lapped up the blood that had started to pool there already.
The taste was unpleasant, but not unbearable. Certainly not as bad as I expected. I drank slowly. In the next minute the temperature in my chest started to rise. The heat felt nice, taking over the pain. I could feel my body healing. And something else. Dimly, almost too faintly to be certain, I could feel her .
“Ahh…” I moaned.
“What do you feel?”
“Something pleasant.”
I felt the pain dissipate. My wounds were healing. In less than five minutes the heat and the pain were gone. And I couldn’t feel her anymore.
“The pain is no more,” I announced.
“ Mon Dieu ,” she whispered, and her eyes brimmed with tears. As I looked closer I noticed they were tinged with pink. “I can heal you,” she said excitedly. “I can heal. Anyone. Sick children, the men, the women of the village….”
“But how will you heal them without them finding out what you are?”
She thought about this for a moment. “I shall bring them medicine, or herbal teas, and persuade them that it is the medicine what has cured them. Then I shall make them forget, like I do when I drink blood. I put them in a trance. Argus taught me that as well.”
At first I was skeptical, but I was happy for her because the thought of helping the townsfolk made her happy. But I shouldn’t have doubted. It turned out she could indeed heal them, and heal them she did. She went around the neighborhood healing the sick. She first healed a worker that had typhoid, of whom she had heard through her maid. She healed men, women, and children.
Spending time with the poorest of our village, her heart swelled with empathy towards their problems. She gave money where she thought it was needed, she ended disputes, she relocated people to where she thought they might do better. She became too involved in their affairs.
But not too long after her new self-appointed vocation as town savior she started to change. I only noticed it months later. Helping the town as she did, it had filled her head with an idea of power—the power of being able to bring strength to the frail as her will dictated.
Its counterpart was to take life.
When she came across a person she didn’t deem worthy of healing, she would choose not to help, even if she knew it meant the person’s death. And if, along the way, she encountered a man committing a crime, she killed him.
The first one was a man that worked for me who was a renowned thief. He had been caught stealing from my father’s land in the past many times, and had been demoted to work in Brunsfield Cottage instead. He wasn’t a bad man, although no one seemed to like him. Charlotte the least of all. One day she caught him abusing a horse, so she killed him. It was the first time I spoke against her.
“You should not have killed him for abusing his own beast.”
“A man who tortures his horse is not a good man at his core,” she countered. “Who would be next? His wife? His children?”
“He had a family ?”
“No—but he might have in the future.”
She became a sort of magistrate in her mind, and started killing everyone
“Let us see! Lie down!” she said excitedly.
I did as she asked, and she pulled up my shirt. She bit her finger and squeezed a few red drops over my bruised ribs, rubbing the blood over my skin like an ointment. Then she sat back while we both watched with groundless anticipation. But nothing happened. Her blood barely penetrated my skin.
She looked at me with fierce determination in her eyes. And without a word she grazed her wrist against her teeth, making a small gash. She brought it to my lips, but I moved back, instinctively.
“Drink,” she commanded.
“But I….”
“Please. You will be not be harmed, I promise.”
Again I followed her command. I closed my lips around the wound on her wrist and lapped up the blood that had started to pool there already.
The taste was unpleasant, but not unbearable. Certainly not as bad as I expected. I drank slowly. In the next minute the temperature in my chest started to rise. The heat felt nice, taking over the pain. I could feel my body healing. And something else. Dimly, almost too faintly to be certain, I could feel her .
“Ahh…” I moaned.
“What do you feel?”
“Something pleasant.”
I felt the pain dissipate. My wounds were healing. In less than five minutes the heat and the pain were gone. And I couldn’t feel her anymore.
“The pain is no more,” I announced.
“ Mon Dieu ,” she whispered, and her eyes brimmed with tears. As I looked closer I noticed they were tinged with pink. “I can heal you,” she said excitedly. “I can heal. Anyone. Sick children, the men, the women of the village….”
“But how will you heal them without them finding out what you are?”
She thought about this for a moment. “I shall bring them medicine, or herbal teas, and persuade them that it is the medicine what has cured them. Then I shall make them forget, like I do when I drink blood. I put them in a trance. Argus taught me that as well.”
At first I was skeptical, but I was happy for her because the thought of helping the townsfolk made her happy. But I shouldn’t have doubted. It turned out she could indeed heal them, and heal them she did. She went around the neighborhood healing the sick. She first healed a worker that had typhoid, of whom she had heard through her maid. She healed men, women, and children.
Spending time with the poorest of our village, her heart swelled with empathy towards their problems. She gave money where she thought it was needed, she ended disputes, she relocated people to where she thought they might do better. She became too involved in their affairs.
But not too long after her new self-appointed vocation as town savior she started to change. I only noticed it months later. Helping the town as she did, it had filled her head with an idea of power—the power of being able to bring strength to the frail as her will dictated.
Its counterpart was to take life.
When she came across a person she didn’t deem worthy of healing, she would choose not to help, even if she knew it meant the person’s death. And if, along the way, she encountered a man committing a crime, she killed him.
The first one was a man that worked for me who was a renowned thief. He had been caught stealing from my father’s land in the past many times, and had been demoted to work in Brunsfield Cottage instead. He wasn’t a bad man, although no one seemed to like him. Charlotte the least of all. One day she caught him abusing a horse, so she killed him. It was the first time I spoke against her.
“You should not have killed him for abusing his own beast.”
“A man who tortures his horse is not a good man at his core,” she countered. “Who would be next? His wife? His children?”
“He had a family ?”
“No—but he might have in the future.”
She became a sort of magistrate in her mind, and started killing everyone
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