The Sun and Moon and Stars

Chapter VIII

Little voices followed them as Julian carried her across the yard and into the home. He laid her down on the parlour’s canape. The soft velvet cushioned Frances and the darkness of the home was gentle on her eyes. Even the stench was something of a comfort.

Julian knelt before her. He sent Winnie off to boil water and instructed Jem to fetch a handful of clean rags. He slowly eased the apron off Frances’s neck and unwrapped it from around her arm. It was more red than white. Supporting the arm with one hand, he reached into his pocket and took out a small retractable knife. Using his teeth to pull out the blade, her flipped it over in his hand.

“I’m sorry about your dress,” he motioned to her sleeve, “But I’m going to have to cut off the sleeve.”

Frances shook her head. “Don’t worry. It would be impossible to take out the blood stains anyway.”

Julian carefully began cutting away Frances’s sleeve, his eyes glancing up at her face with every snip. Frances could feel the blame in his eyes burn into her skin and she focused her gaze on the knife, on the stick, on her blood...on anything but Julian.

The sleeve fell away and the brutality of the accident came into view.

Before Frances could retch onto herself, Winnie came back in, a bowl in hand filled with water, steam rising from the top. She placed it on the table beside Julian and took a seat on the floor near the foot of the canape, her eyes wide in a mixture of anticipation and horror. 

Jem came in only a moment later, his arms filled with rags and scraps of cloth, the pile so high he could barely see over it. Julian took the burden from his son and laid the pile beside the bowl.

“Winnie, why don’t you go outside and play with Jem? I’ll look at your scrapes when I’m done with Frances,” he said. Winnie sighed but took her little brother by his hand and disappeared back into the bright afternoon sun.

Frances fidgeted on the cushions, suddenly aware that Julian, her employer, was serving her, taking care of her.

Despite her discomfort, Julian looked as if nothing was out of place. He held her arm still in his rough hand as he used the rag and water to gently wipe the drying blood away. His touch was gentle and he constantly judged her reaction and adjusted his movements to make things less painful for Frances. He reached into his back pocket once most of the blood was gone and took out a small square of sanding paper. Using extreme caution, he began to rub away at either end of the stick, smoothing down any corners and poking ends. It took some time, and Frances tried to concentrate on the rhythmic motions to keep her mind off the pain and the terrifying fact that a stick had pierced her arm.

When the wood was smooth to the touch, Julian placed the knife into the bowl of steaming water. Frances glanced at the knife curiously. Why would Julian do such a thing?

Then it dawned on her. Her eyes widened and her breath quickened. She yanked her arm away despite the pain but Julian’s hold was strong. 

“You can’t do it,” she said in between laboured breaths. “I won’t let you.”

Julian pulled her arm closer. “Do what?”

“Cut me.”

Julian glanced down at the bowl and shook his head slowly. “There is no other way.”

Frances pulled against his grip. “You could not cut me open like a roasted pig.”

“I can’t smooth down the entire stick. If I try to pull it out, there will be splinters. Splinters no one will have access to. Splinters that will cause an infection.”