Page 60 of Tattle Tail
Joseph
The sounds of home surrounded him. Marigold and Valerian were bickering. He could be any age: five, sixteen, or thirty-one. As he drifted into consciousness, it became apparent that Valerian wanted to do something that Marigold disapproved of.
“It’s fine. It’s clean,” Valerian said.
Something tickled his nose. A lot of somethings.
He moved his head to the side, desperate to make the ticking stop.
“It worked! Alternative sensation therapy saved him. You owe me an apology, Sunshower Marigold.”
“Mom, he was sleeping, not in a coma,” Mari said.
Joseph cracked open his eyes. His mother held a short wand wrapped with corded leather. One end was feathers. The other end was a flat leather paddle.
“Mom, that’s not a therapy tool,” he croaked, his voice dry and rasping. “That’s a sex toy.”
“I weep for your lovers over your lack of creativity,” Valerian said.
“Mooom,” Joseph and Mari groaned at once.
“I find his creativity to be satisfactory,” Peaceable said in a very matter-of-fact tone.
Oh, wonderful. Peaceable was here to witness all the family magic.
“I mean in bed, dear,” Valerian said in a highly disturbing motherly tone.
“Yes, I understand what you mean.” Then a pause before Peaceable spoke again. “Though we have not been in a bed yet.”
He died, didn’t he? The mornclaws got him or perhaps they suffocated on the ship and everything that happened on the planet’s surface was the desperate machinations of his dying brain.
No. He was dead, and he clearly wasn’t in the good place.
“Drink.” Peaceable pressed a glass of water to his lips.
The cool water was divine, but his head felt like it was full of cotton.
“We’ll give you two a moment,” Marigold said, grabbing Valerian by the elbow and steering her out of the room.
Alone, he had so much to say and wasn’t sure how to start. Finally, he asked. “Where are we?”
“Aslan Station.”
“Pricey.”
“I am more than happy to spend Lord Resolve’s credits.” She grinned, showing the tips of her fangs. After a moment, her smile fell, and her gaze drifted down to his arm.
Thick gauze prevented him from seeing the damage. At least he had his hand and all his fingers waiting at the end of his arm, so nothing had to be amputated. Drip lines connected to his other arm.
“What’s the damage? Am I going to make it, doc?” The joke sounded thin, even to his ears.
“You required surgery on the deeper cut. Some tissue death had occurred due to infection. The tissue was removed,” she said.
“How much?” Joseph resisted the urge to poke at the bandage, to see how much was gauze and how much was still him. Instead, he wiggled his fingers. Everything seemed to be in working order.
Her ears twitched. He could see the cogs and gears whirling in her mind. “I do not know. A medic mentioned grafting new muscle tissue. Perhaps they would explain it better. I can find them,” she said.
“Not right now. Just lie with me.”
