Eira
The bell above the shop door chimed.
Mrs. Gable was startled awake. She had been sleeping on the floor, the blood-stained rag still in her grasp. She scrambled to stand, smoothing her apron over her shaking knees, trying to shield the boy's slumped form with her own shadow.
Eira stepped inside, shaking her boots on the mat. Her face was pale, dark hair a mess of tangles on her head, but her eyes weren't filled with the rage from the gardens anymore. They seemed tired.
"Good morning, Mrs. Gable. I forgot to ask about-" Eira stopped mid-sentence. Her gaze dropped to the floor, landing on the tangle of wool blankets and the pale hand peeking out from beneath them. "Oh! Who is this? What happened?"
Before Mrs. Gable could concoct a lie about a traveller or a fallen merchant, Eira was already moving.
She dropped her satchel and was on her knees in an instant. Her hands flew to his neck, a quick sigh of relief escaping her lips when she felt a pulse.
"He's freezing," Eira whispered, her brow furrowing in deep concern. "Mrs. Gable, he's barely tethered. Where is his lantern? We need to sync his pulse to the wick immediately, or he'll slip away."
Mrs. Gable opened her mouth, but the words died. She looked at Eira's focused face.
"He... he didn't have one, child," Mrs. Gable said quietly.
Eira's eyes widened, a flash of pure horror crossing her face. "He left it behind? Why would anyone-?" She shook her head, pushing the question away. "It doesn't matter why. We have to keep him warm. If the heart is too far from the body for too long, the thread snaps."
Eira reached into her own satchel, pulling out the bandages and the small vial of stimulant. She began to work quickly, wrapping the boy's frostbitten fingers, her movements practiced and tender.
"I'll stoke the stove," Mrs. Gable said.
"I need the heavy oil. The stuff with the lavender press." Eira called out.
Mrs. Gable hurried to the back of the shop, her hands fumbling with the iron latch of the stove. As she tossed in the coal, she watched Eira over her shoulder.
The younger woman was breathing life back into the boy, her own warmth transferring through the flannel wraps.
Eira took his frozen hand in hers. She didn't care about the grease or the dirt. She began to wrap his fingers in warm, dry flannel, moving with a tenderness that belied the punch she had thrown earlier that day.
"You're okay," she murmured to the unconscious boy. She leaned in close, her voice a steady anchor in the quiet shop. "You made it to the gardens. We've got you. Just hold on until the morning."
As she tucked a blanket under his chin, she noticed a jagged scar on his jawline, and for a split second, she wondered who he was. Why would someone choose the slow, freezing death of a lanternless walk over whatever was happening at the docks?
She didn't have the answer, so she simply went back to work, rubbing the warmth back into his skin, unaware that she was currently saving the very person she had sworn to hunt down.