I should have let him die. My hands wring the washcloth again and again. Cool, clear drops of water drip from my fingers. Down my cheeks linger the hot, salty driblets of grief. His body scorched, his face burned beyond recognition—they brought him to the monastery, to the nuns who take such a great care. They brought me, too. Lanying must have instructed them to.
“Sister, please,” Jomo says. She takes the wet cloth from my hands. “Now you take rest.” I shake my head. The wretched stench of burn, ash, and soot clings to my hair, to my clothes, to me.
“Nordun, she’s right.” Palmo’s calm voice reasons me to the door.
I must clean myself up, and rest, and dress my wounds too, but I don’t want to. I want to be with the suffering, draw it out and let it wash over me.
This. I close my ey
