37
Salvador Francisco Delavordo unwound the bandage around the girl’s chest, making sure his eyes stayed on the wound located over her heart. Thanks to the herbs he’d administered earlier, she was still insensible. She wouldn’t have known if he saw her breasts, but he adjusted the sheet anyway if only to preserve her modesty in his own head.
The blackened center of the injury had faded to a sickly green. Some of the edges were still purple, but he was reassured by what he saw. The girl was going to make a full recovery.
He went to the doorway of his makeshift examination room, waving in the grief-stricken parents.
“The curse is responding to the poultice,” he told them in Spanish. “She needs to rest for a few more weeks, but she will recover.”
The girl’s mother surprised him, jumping
