Page 65 of Apples Dipped in Gold

Her eyes widened. “Noon? Why didn’t you wake me?”

She threw off her blanket and rose to her feet.

“If we were leaving today, I would have,” I said. “But the weather has not changed, so I thought it best that you rest.”

“Oh,” she said. “But then you will only have—”

“Three days,” I said. “I am aware but the journey is pointless if you die from the cold.”

She settled again, taking her place in front of the fire, pulling the blanket around her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she said.

The word set my teeth on edge, not because I didn’t appreciate hearing it, but because choosing to stay was no grand act of kindness. It was required if we were going to have any chance at reaching the wishing tree.

“How did you sleep?” she asked.

I smiled a little. “I didn’t.”

She blushed, and I knew she was thinking of our conversation at the river.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“You are sorry for so many things and none of them are your doing,” I said.

She dropped her gaze from mine, holding the blanket tighter.

“I suppose I am used to being blamed,” she said.

“I am not blaming you,” I said.

We were quiet after that, and Samara laid down again.

When I was certain she was asleep, I pulled off my gloves and then my prosthetic. It had been carved by dryads and given the illusion of realness by the blue fairy, but even with magic, it still made my limb hurt and sweat. A wave of relief I could not describe came over me as I removed the cloth layers I used to cushion my limb. It had hurt since yesterday, worse than usualbecause of the weather but I hadn’t wanted to take my hand off earlier, too afraid I might fall asleep without it.

I sat, staring down at it, remembering the horror of losing it.

Nothing had prepared me. It had been there one day and was gone the next. I was initially shocked. The more I struggled with things that had once been simple—like using a knife to spread butter on bread or unsheathing my sword—the angrier I became, particularly because I could stillfeelmy hand and all five fingers. At first, I tried desperately to keep it a secret, especially from my brothers, but in the end, they did not care that I lost my hand. They cared more abouthow,and the truth amused my brothers to no end.

I could handle that.

I could handle learning to live differently within my world. I could handle everything taking longer. It was the pain that made it hard, and it worsened throughout the day. It was like holding my fingers near a fire, drawing closer and closer until they were consumed, except it was all in my head, because I had no hand.

Even now, I kept my jaw tight as wave after wave of pain coursed down my arm, straight to the tips of my nonexistent fingers. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, resting my head against the hard wall of the lean-to.

I don’t know exactly what woke me, but when I opened my eyes, it was to Samara. For a brief second, I thought perhaps I was still dreaming, except that in my dreams, she never stared at me like this—her eyes wide with shock, her mouth parted as if she wanted to speak but had found no words.

Then I realized she was holding my hand, and that look on her face meant she knew exactly who I was.

“Samara,” I said, sitting up. Inside, I felt frantic to explain myself.

“It’s you,” she said, dropping my hand and taking a step back. “You are the one who gave me the knife. I…I don’t understand.”

“Samara—”

She shook her head. “Why is it you?”

“Why not me?” I asked, though I didn’t exactly know why. She had every right to ask, though in some ways, I felt defensive.

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