Despite the ferocious heat outside, his home was cool and shaded, and he was grateful for that. He was feverish enough without sunstroke making things worse. The floor was strewn with bloody bandages and spilled water. A faint odor hung in the air: not unpleasant, but enough to attract flies. Finn had to dress the wound as swiftly as possible. He worked with practiced hands, his thoughts unraveling along with the fresh bandage. “I can’t believe I’m facing this again,” he said to himself. “The rats were there. The child was there, I know he was. I came so close to being cured! I still don’t see why it went so badly. I did exactly what the stag told me to do. The curse should be gone, and instead . . .” He tied the bandage and lay back against the couch. Closed his eyes to shut out the pain and despair. The children of Hamelin had been his last hope. Centuries of pain and waiting had all come to nothing. Now he didn’t want to go on. He was fit and healthy. He could expect to live for hundreds of years.
