Page 57 of Pulled By the Tail
She scratched at the base of her throat.
Maybe Bright had a home remedy, calamine lotion or something.
Georgia reached for her robe and faced the general direction of the door. Her sense of direction was strong enough that she could stumble her way around, but Charl had been working in the hallway yesterday. The corridor would be a minefield of trip hazards. She’d be lucky to find the stairs without breaking her neck.
What then? Shout down the hall for help? The closest person was Talen—
Georgia sighed, knowing what she had to do. Their connecting door lay directly opposite the foot of her bed. She took careful steps, hand outstretched, until she felt the wall. Fumbling, she found the doorframe.
Was he still asleep? He was an early riser but she didn’t know the time. Carefully, she listened. The birds were silent, so it had to be before dawn. He’d still be in bed.
She knocked lightly. “Talen? I need your help.”
The door opened. She couldn’t see him, but she felt his presence, still warm from sleep. She bet his hair was rumpled too.
“What happened to you?” he said, hands landed on her shoulders. He tugged at the robe, exposing her rash-covered skin.
“That bad, huh?”
“Were you bitten? Do you have a fever?” He pushed the robe away and lifted the hem of her tank top.
Georgia batted his hand away. He didn’t need to inspect her. “It’s an allergic reaction.”
“You need a medic.”
“Yes, I do. Can you take me?”
“Can you breathe? Your throat?” She felt the heat of his hand as if he reached out to stroke her throat but held back.
“Yeah, that’s fine. I think it’s just on my skin and my eyes,” she said, forcing herself to keep a sunny attitude. The day had started off on the wrong foot; being grumpy would only make it worse. Talen made no reply. “I look that bad, huh?”
“Alarming, yes, but not bad. You never look bad,” he answered.
She wanted to know what his ears were doing and if he told the truth. “You don’t have to fib to make me feel better.”
He huffed. She scratched at her forearm. “I have a lotion, if you are itching, but does not smell pleasant,” he said.
“Yes, please. Anything.”
With his hand on her elbow, he guided her back to her bed. “Remove your clothes,” he said, before leaving to fetch the lotion.
She stripped, eager to discard her pajamas as they were probably contaminated with whatever pollen or oil that caused the reaction. Anything she touched yesterday—doorknobs, furniture, her toothbrush—would have to be cleaned thoroughly. She had no idea how extensively her skin had been damaged; she only knew she felt like she was on fire everywhere.
“Here,” he said, placing a bottle in her hands.
“Umm.” She fumbled until she opened the cap. “Can you?”
Starting at her hands, the cool lotion instantly soothed the itch. He worked his way up her arm, dabbing at her shoulders and collarbone.
“That feels amazing,” she said. Then she sniffed. And sniffed again. The unmistakable odor of fish tickled her nose. “What is it?”
“It is derived from algae. It is good for your skin.”
“It smells like fish.” And dank ponds.
“It is also good for enforced solitude,” he said.
“Leave-me-alone stink goo?”
