Masked

Chapter 2 HER

Walter and I reach the walled entry of my home and simultaneously let go of the boy. I drop to the ground and pull in several deep breaths, trying to slow my rapidly beating heart.

"Now what?" Walter says through gasps of air, his hands on his knees.

"I have to get my parents," I push the words out, each one fighting its way around my labored breaths. "And you have to leave."

Walter's eyes widen. "I can help—"

"No, Walter. I'm going to be in trouble for going to the river no matter what. There's no point in you having to answer questions, too."

I can tell he wants to argue, but after a minute he nods in agreement and begins to leave.

"Walter!" I call and he turns to face me. "Don't tell anyone about this. Please."

"I won't. I promise."

Walter walks away, and I run inside and get my parents.

Of course, Mother immediately begins asking questions, but I ignore her and watch my father, who's already outside, lifting the boy in his arms. I trail my father, my fingers wrapping around the fabric of my dress, as he carries the boy inside and lays him on the wooden table in the kitchen. We stand in silence, watching the beads of water drip from the boy's hair onto the table.

"Is he dead?" I ask hesitantly, my voice shaking, terrified of the answer.

Mother lays her fingers against his neck. "No."

She uses a dagger to cut his tunic up the middle. Warmth instantly burns across my cheeks. I know I should turn away, but my gaze travels along the pale, damp skin that covers his chest and stomach. It seems unharmed. Mother tilts his head to the side to examine the back of his neck. A charcoal colored marking lingers just beneath his hairline. Mother brushes up his hair with her fingers to look closer, and her red hair falls between his neck and my line of sight, creating a curtain between us.

"What is it?" I ask. My teeth grab hold of my lip as I wait for her answer.

"A birthmark."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, see for yourself." Mother lifts her head and lets me lean in. She's right: a birthmark. Though it's unlike any birthmark I've ever seen. Most are random splotches of color, but this one holds the shape of a perfect crescent moon. Mother lets go of his hair and most of the birthmark disappears, leaving just the bottom curve exposed.

Mother continues to check him for several more minutes. "I don't see any other injuries aside from this," she says as she lifts up his hair and points to a strawberry-sized lump with an inch long gash high on his forehead.

"But what about all the blood on his clothes?" Father asks.

Mother pauses, and I get the feeling that her hesitation is not from lack of knowledge.

"Could all that blood have been from this cut?" I ask, prodding her to answer.

"Well, head injuries can bleed quite a bit, and he may have used the shirt at some point to try and stop the bleeding."

I nod my head. "That's probably what he did," I say, but in my heart something tells me the blood on his shirt isn't his.

"It doesn't seem infected," she says, her gaze on the cut. "But I would still prefer to burn some rosemary and thyme to help keep it that way."

I run to the kitchen and fling open the cupboard. Purple, yellow, green, and black herbs hang from the tops of the shelves, taunting me as I search for the right ones. Finally, my hands wrap around the bushy green herbs and I begin crushing them in an iron bowl. I run back to mother and watch as she twists her hair into a braid before kneeling by the fire to light the herbs.