Page 43 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
“I don’t.”
She retrieves a polished metal disk attached to a wooden handle and holds it near my eyes, angling it to catch the light from the window. “Look straight ahead.”
The light reflected into my eyes makes me squint and blink rapidly.
“Your pupils respond normally,” she murmurs, setting down the reflector and picking up a hollow wooden tube. “Breathe deeply.”
She presses one end of the tube to my chest, the other toher ear. The wood feels cold against my skin as she moves it methodically across my torso, listening to my breaths and heartbeats.
“Again,” she commands, moving the tube to my back.
I comply, fighting the urge to shiver as her fingers press along my spine, counting vertebrae. She retrieves a small leather mallet and taps my knees, elbows, watching how my limbs respond.
“Any pain here?” she asks, pressing into my abdomen with practiced fingers.
“No.”
“Here?”
“No.”
Next, she examines my fingernails, my tongue, the whites of my eyes. She takes a thin silver needle and pricks my fingertip, squeezing a drop of blood onto a piece of parchment, studying its color.
“When was your last monthly flow?” She asks, making another note.
I open my mouth to answer and find... nothing. Another blank space where memory should be.
“I don’t remember,” I admit, fingers curling into the thin mattress beneath me.
Sandtide’s pen stops mid-stroke. She looks up, gray eyes narrowing. “You keep saying you don’t remember. Did you hit your head?”
“I don’t know.” Frustration rises in my throat, hot and choking. “I don’t remember anything that happened in the last year. Not my monthly flow, not these scars, not how I got that bruise. Nothing.”
The medic sets down her notes, concern replacing clinical detachment. She steps closer, her cool fingers working through my hair, parting sections to examine my scalp.I sit stiffly as she probes, her touch methodical as she searches for bumps or wounds.
“Hold still,” she murmurs, turning my head slightly to check behind my ears.
“Find anything interesting?” I ask.
“No visible injury,” she says, stepping back. She sits on her stool, regarding me with a frown that deepens the lines around her mouth. “Memory loss this complete usually comes from significant trauma to the head.”
I laugh, a sound with no humor in it. “Or significant trauma to the soul.”
“I deal in bodies, not souls,” she counters.
“Well, my body was somewhere my mind doesn’t remember.” I start pulling the jacket back on, suddenly desperate to be covered, to hide these marks I can’t explain. “The mountain swallowed me, spat me back out, and stole a year from me. That’s all I’ve got. Can I go now?”
She stands, blocking my path with a stern expression that could freeze a fire elemental. “You’re not going anywhere, Skysinger Wyndward.”
“I’ve been examined. I’m malnourished, dehydrated, covered in mystery scars. Nothing a meal and rest won’t fix.” I yank the jacket down, wincing as the leather slides over all my scrapes and bruises.
“First,” she continues as if I haven’t spoken, “you’ll have a proper bath. My apprentices will assist you.”
“A bath?” I bark out a laugh. “That’s your medical recommendation? I can wash myself, thanks.”
Her expression doesn’t change. “Then we’ll need urine and stool samples for further testing.”
My jaw drops. “A stool sample? Really? You want to examine my shit?” Heat rushes to my face. “That’s humiliating!”
