"You..." I panted, "are a colossal idiot."

Beetle just smirked as I maneuvered her stiff, bruised body to sit on the hay cot. The small room was only lit by a single lamp, and our shadows waltzed in the dim light. The darkness leaking out of the window seemed to deepen the song of stillness that flooded the farm. "I'm a courageous idiot."

"Oh," I said as I turned to pull a clean rag from under my cot. "It was courage that got you smacked around? My bad," I muttered cynically as poured a cautious splash of water onto the rag and brought it up to Beetle's face. "I thought it was your pride."

She hummed in amusement. The cut across her eyebrow was bleeding badly, but she didn't seem bothered in the slightest. She wiped the back of her hand against her eye to keep the blood out and I flinched as the thoughts of infection flooded my mind.

"Don't touch it!"

"I'm fine," she muttered, pushing the rag away from her face. She read the skepticism on my face and rolled her eyes. "I'm fine. Life's not all that serious. The foremen were the ones being idiots and I told them so. They can't seriously expect me to not say something when they're eying me up like I'm some sort of lollipop at a shoppe. Honestly, it's sickening how—"

I added more water to the rag and gently tried to wipe up the blood that had dried on her eyebrow. She huffed dramatically but allowed me to proceed. Beetle persistently astonished me—it was as it she didn't care if she lived or died.

Beetle continued her animated tirade against the foremen as my fingers gripped her shoulders softly and turned her to face the window. My teeth locked on my lip when I saw her back. It looked like a foreman had taken a switch to it. One, two, three...Seven.

As soon as I counted the marks, I realized that Beetle had stopped talking. She contorted, trying to get a glimpse of her back, smiling again as if she was amused by the whole ordeal. "So, what's the damage?"

"Not bad," I lied. "The switches didn't even break the skin. Here, take this," I said, handing her the rag. "Keep that on your face," I said seriously.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she muttered and slapped the cloth against her forehead dramatically. "Stop the bleeding, avoid an infection, yada, yada, yada."

I turned to focus on her back. The switch had made a strange pattern as it sliced through the fabric of her tunic. I tugged open the largest hole and slid my hand inside, aiming for a spot of skin that had survived the onslaught untouched. Her skin was on fire with agitation and wet with a mixture of sweat and blood. Was talking back worth this? Beetle certainly seemed to think so.

I ignored my doubts and took a deep breath, my fingers dancing tentatively over the island of skin. Then I flicked the switch.

Healing was a strange gift. It was like reading a difficult passage in a foreign dialect. The wound was a series of letters and words that defied meaning apart from a gentle massage of interpretation. I grit my teeth as I reordered and manipulation the elements of healing. Finally, I grasped the message behind the chaotic strands of disunity and released the meaning into her body. Seven wounds. As I exhaled, I watched the severed and puckered, red flesh began to stitch itself back together.

The body wanted to be put back into order, but it needed someone to help it understand. I simply aided the body in doing what it already knew how to do.

Just like that, her skin glowed smoothly in the flickering light, streams of blood glinting a strange bronze. Some of my frustrated panic lowered with my heartrate. She would be okay. I glanced at Beetle, who had spread the cloth to cover her whole face for some inexplicable reason. I knew that underneath her small face-tent, she would be falling asleep. Her body had completed in a few seconds what it normally did in several weeks. A little recuperation would be in order.

Beetle had a notoriously poor memory when it came to ger own injuries. Being on the losing end of the foremen's fist and switch was a shockingly common experience for the courageous idiot. She wouldn't notice much. Beetle had many strengths, but attentiveness was not one of them.

"Beetle, has the bleeding stopped yet?" I asked.

"Don't call me that. I'm not a dewlos," she mumbled back from under the cloth.

"Yes," I said, slowly pulling the cloth from her face and folding it once more. Her eyes were closed, and she was already slipping off into sleep. "You are. You have a ring in your nose, don't you?"

Beetle whirled on me in an exhausted frustration and looked down at our matching nose rings. She huffed from her nose, as if she could blow it away. "I hate it here. Three years and I'm still here."

"Sorry," I muttered. "If you want me to call you by your real name in private, I will."

She flopped back and pulled up her covers, sliding under them in annoyance. Before I could stand up, she shoved me off her cot with her feet. I moved over to mine. I wanted to tell her that her wound needed washing, but she clearly wasn't interested. "I don't want you to call me by my real name in private. I want my old name back for good. I'm not a bug." With that, she blew out our lamp and fell into a grumpy sleep.

The tension in my muscles slowly began to release, echoing a sweet ache throughout my body. I was tired. The door moved and I flinched, heart pounding in panic. The wind coming through the window must have moved the door. I quietly got up and slid our chair under the doorknob. The darkness provided a slight comfort.

I pulled slowly on the handle, but it didn't budge. Good.

I turned back and watched Beetle in the fourth cot down the line. I could hear the rumbling snores of the other dewloi echo around our room like wolves growling as they circled their prey.

Nowhere was safe.

I glanced at Beetle, who must have felt she was safe enough to fall asleep. I envied her flippancy, but I was also grateful for it. If she paid closer attention, she would surely know that I was a healer. If she knew, she would let it slip.

That was a secret I couldn't trust anyone with—not even my closest friend. That secret was my key to Anthony.

I closed our window and tied a small strip of leather around it, winding it shut and muttering a prayer of protection.

I checked the door for the last time and finally settled into my bed. The stiff board of the bed was only covered by an inch-thick, hay mattress. I pulled the scratchy burlap blanket over me and turned to face Beetle. Her body rose and fell calmly, reminding me of the gentle waves that would lap at the lake at the far end of the property. Over the next few days, I could partially heal the cut on her face to make sure it didn't get infected.

She would be okay.

I tensed as the door rattled again. I would never know if it was the wind. Or if it was something far more sinister.