Alex said to Qaachow, looking at the wounded man lying on her kitchen table. She’d stitched up the wound as well as she could and packed crushed yarrow and comfrey around it. “Now all we can do is hope it doesn’t become infected – again.” She looked down at her hands. She’d never done anything like this before, and she’d fervently wished Mrs Parson had been here to help her as she’d heated the blade and sliced up the badly healed sword gash that ran all the way down the man’s right side. Fat chance of that; she hadn’t seen Mrs Parson for over ten years but assumed her to be hale and hearty down in Virginia. The man hadn’t uttered as much as a whimper while she used tweezers and knife to cut away dead tissue, releasing the putrid stench of rot and pus. “I thank you,” Qaachow said. “Not many of your people would invite us into their homes – in particular, not under these circumstances.” “You’re always welcome here,”
