Mrs. Gable
A sudden thump at the door caused Mrs. Gable to jump in her seat, warm tea spilling on the table. The silence that followed raised the hairs on the back of her head.
"Eira?" Mrs. Gable called out, wiping her hands on her apron. "Did you forget your gloves again?"
No answer.
Who could be awake at this hour? Cautiously, she walked to the door and pulled it open. The freezing night air rushed in, smelling of snow and old iron. At first, she thought a bundle of rags had blown onto her porch. Then, the bundle shivered.
Mrs. Gable gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
It was a boy. He was curled into a tight ball, his skin a terrifying shade of translucent grey. But it wasn't the frostbite that made her heart stop; it was his belt. It was empty. There was no lantern. No light.
"Mercy," she breathed, looking around the deserted terrace. If anyone saw a lanternless boy on her doorstep, they would burn the shop down to "purify" the air.
She reached down, grabbing the boy by his heavy, wet coat. With strength born from pure panic, she dragged him inside and kicked the door shut.
She dragged him to the hearth, but she didn't put him too close to the fire. If you were lanternless, too much heat, too fast would crack your skin like glass.
Mrs. Gable ran to her shelves, her hands shaking as she bypassed the expensive tinctures meant for the High-Tier. She grabbed a jar of Winter-Fat and a bottle of Stinging-Nettle Oil.
"Stay with me, boy. Don't you dare go quiet on my floor."
She knelt beside him, peeling back his damp, grease-stained coat. His chest was barely moving. Every breath was a struggle, a raspy, rattling sound that filled the quiet shop. She began to rub the oil into his hands and neck, trying to force the blood to move. His skin was so cold it burned her fingers.
She noticed the grime under his fingernails. It was the same black grease from the Water-Wheels.
'A dock-worker,' she thought.
"Why would you leave it?" she muttered, her eyes stinging. "What could be so bad that you'd leave your light behind?"
She spent the next hour in a blur of motion. She boiled a pot of water and herbs for the steam. She draped a heavy wool blanket over a chair, creating a small tent over his head to trap the warm, herbal vapour.
She had to be careful. If she used too much stimulant, his heart might burst from the strain of being untethered.
She worked until her own back ached, dabbing his forehead with lukewarm water and forcing a few drops of willow-bark syrup between his blue-tinged lips. Her body screamed for her to rest, but the very thought of losing a patient was enough to fuel her on.
Slowly, the violent shivering started to fade into a dull tremble. His colour didn't return, but the grey cast to his skin softened.
Mrs. Gable sat back on her heels, wiping her brow with a blood-stained rag. She looked back at the boy.
"I will not let another one die," she whispered faintly. "Not again."