TwentyDay five. Or was it week five? Bridget’s healing felt slow.
The wind wailed through the alley, the gusts funneling between the buildings. The coldest and fiercest-sounding since her arrival. To Bridget’s ear, the noise was a combination of badger screams and wolf howls.
The light attested to a mid-morning hour, and though she still ached with fatigue, she reached for her clothes. A sharp pain hit her, making her wince and sit motionless until the stabbing ebbed away. She’d done too much yesterday, cleaning up the bar, working in the kitchen, all but bathing Plum Cake, and then not reaching her bed until three a.m. Today she’d suffer for the excess. She lifted her nightshirt and checked the bandaging. Only a single drop of blood had soaked through. She’d change the dressing later an
