Chapter 10: Sand in the Box

Finlay's fever broke a little before dawn.

I sat by his cot with my arm in a pressure wrap, listening to his breathing until it slowed to the long even pull of sleep.

His cowlick stood up on the pillow.

I did not touch it.

I wanted to so badly that my fingers cramped.

Around five, the healer told me to rest, and I went out into the hall.

Hamish was sitting on the floor against the wall with his elbows on his knees.

He got to his feet when he saw me.

I walked up to him and I hit him.

It was an open hand, with all my weight behind it, and it cracked across his face and turned his head.

He didn't lift a hand to stop me.

He turned his face back and waited for the next one.

"You opened the grave," I said.

"Yes."

"Last night. And this morning you stood at that table with my son's blood in a dish and you let me say he wasn't mine."

"I wanted to tell you in private. I wanted it to be gentle." His voice cracked. "I should have woken you at dawn, and I sat by the stone instead."

"That isn't gentle. It's cowardice."

"I know."

I hit him again, on the other side.

He took that one too.

When I raised my hand a third time, I found I couldn't, and my arm dropped.

Then I was shaking so hard I had to put my back against the wall.

"Show me," I said.

He reached into his coat and brought out something wrapped in a dish towel.

I took it from him with both hands and unfolded the cloth.

It was a small white flannel blanket with a crooked hem.

It had a lumpy letter N stitched in the corner in pale blue thread.