The hallway was quiet. Anne could hear nothing but the sound of her own breathing as she stood in the middle of the hall, and from that place she could see nothing but darkness, darkness that was so deep that no glimmer or suggestion of light could pass through. It was always so difficult in the mornings, when the sun wasn’t high enough to see anything by, but since it was daytime the use of torches was forbidden. Still, these halls were familiar to her, and she could make her way along them by touch and memory only. She walked down the hallway, her fingertips just barely grazing the cool stone of the wall, and wondered which chore to do first.

There was a noise, the distant noise of voices, and the stillness was broken. Anne paused, listening for who it was; although she couldn’t make out any of the words through the walls, she could tell they were all residents, like her. She relaxed a little and continued on her way.

And stopped. The voices were nearer. The people approaching turned a corner, and now were in the same hallway as she was – and all at once Anne saw the torches’ glow and stepped back.

“Anne!” It was Maria, one of the other girls near Anne’s age. “Bandages, bandages! I can’t find where they are! Get some!”

Anne felt herself flying down the hallway, wondering at the use of torches – it must truly be an emergency, then, for something like that. They’d all have to fast for it later, but no matter. She felt her pulse rushing but didn’t allow herself to slow down. Maria never came to the storage rooms down here, so of course she didn’t know where the bandages were kept; in any event, Anne didn’t know why they were needed – but she could guess.

There were two possible reasons: either one of the residents had gotten hurt – an accident or maybe one of the new girls’ awful attempts at escape – or else someone had arrived.

Finally, she’d reached the cupboard where the bandages were kept. She pulled out armfuls and armfuls of them, not knowing how much she needed. Then she went back to where she’d seen Maria, moving at a slower pace this time because of the added weight.

There were more people there now, perhaps five or six, and they were all holding onto something very large and dead-looking. A body.

Anne edged up closer, her arms full of bandages. Someone saw her and took them out of her arms and sent her away. So she went and did her chores, and Maria’s, too, because no one had done them – presumably Maria had tangled herself in whatever was happening in the basement – and she still didn’t know anything about what had happened. She didn’t know if it was wise to ask. If it mattered, if it involved her, she’d be called down for it anyways, and if it didn’t, well, it wouldn’t concern her then.

It turned out that it did involve her, as much as it involved anyone. She was stealing some time to eat her lunch when one of the older priestesses came up to her.

“Anne?”

Anne turned, dropping her head in a half-bow. The woman stepped closer. “I need to ask something more from you, and I hesitate to do this.”

“Yes, Mother?”

“I know you’ve already done all of Maria’s chores, so I don’t want to burden you with more work. But none of the priestesses can do this – you know that – and I don’t want to ask Maria…”

“What is the request you have of me?” Anne asked.

“I need you to change his bandages.”

So it was an outsider, then, and a man. Anne felt something thrill her – nerves, perhaps, or some shred of curiosity, a curiosity she worked to bury. “Why can Maria not do it?”

“Because Maria still misses her home,” the woman said with a sigh. “Maria may wish to escape with him. I don’t know if Maria is the correct person to choose for this, Anne, so I ask you to do it.” She smiled wryly. “Obviously you know where the bandages are.”

The joke went over Anne’s head. “Yes, I do,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

She descended the staircases that would lead her to the basement, gathered up more bandages, and found the room they’d brought the man’s body to. It was locked, but she had been given the key, so she opened it and went in.

Anne had always held the opinion that sickness had a smell, and this room was full of it. It was musty, dry, and made her a bit queasy; no torches were lit, so, biting her lip, she lit an unused one that sat in a bracket.

The man was on the bed, and the first thing that Anne thought was that he was dead. His skin, she could tell, would normally be tan, but now it seemed almost green, and coupled with the orange-gold light pouring from the torch, he seemed like a phantom, a ghost, a corpse. Bandages, red-brown with old blood, were wrapped around his torso; his arms and head also had bandages, though there was less blood.

She wondered then how he could even be alive with those wounds, but he stirred slightly in his sleep, muttering something, and Anne, broken out of her trance, snapped to attention. She approached him and wondered how exactly she was supposed to wrap the bandages around his chest while he was lying down.

Perhaps he’d wake up; perhaps those didn’t need to be changed; perhaps she’d find or invent away. It didn’t matter now. Anne decided to start with the arms.

She knelt at the man’s bedside, finding one edge of the bandage and unwrapping it with gentle ease. She’d done this many times before, first as practice, then many times when the local village had gotten the boil-disease, and also a few times for injuries.

She was relieved to see that the wound on his arm – which appeared to be a huge bruise accompanied by a place where the skin had been scraped away, perhaps from a fall – no longer bled. This would make things easier. Immediately she tore off a section of the clean bandage, one she thought would be long enough to cover it.

He stirred. Anne paused, her fingers hovering inches from his skin, then continued, lifting up his arm. It was heavy with muscle, muscle that seemed to be rigid and tense. Perhaps he wasn’t as old as she originally thought; he had no wrinkles on his face, and he seemed fit. His skin had many small cuts and scars, and though it appeared to be smooth at first, was actually quite rough because of all this.

Anne hurried to finish his arms, already disliking this chore, then hesitated for a moment before beginning on the bandage wrapped around his forehead. As she took her time unwrapping this, she took time to survey his face. The man’s hair was some color she couldn’t quite make out in the dim light – orange, perhaps, or dark, brownish-yellow – and his skin, she could tell, was naturally fair. She could see the soft veins that webbed his face. The surprisingly delicate skin was broken all over by cuts and scars, just like on his arms, and a particularly large one stretched from one corner of his mouth nearly to his ear.

The man’s eyes, however, were covered by the bandage; she wondered if he’d ever woken up in the middle of night and thought he’d been blinded, if it ever terrified him to have his sight taken away. She finally finished unwrapping the bandage and saw that his eyes were small and ringed by short, pale lashes.

When the bandage was off he twitched and Anne halted, waiting to see if he was awake. He groaned and rolled to his side, and she jumped away, all of the sudden afraid of the touch.

The man’s eyes opened; he saw her, and she saw them, bright and orange from the fire, swimming with tears from the sleep or from pain, Anne didn’t know. “Who are you?”

“Anne.”

He rolled back onto his back and she stayed still, frozen where she stood, the remaining clean bandages in her hands and on the bed beside the man. She had a sinking feeling that perhaps she should run and get help, but she found she could not move herself.

“That’s not what I meant.” His voice was raspy and low. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

It was not a question, so she did not open her mouth; he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and said, “So your name is Anne. I did not ask your name. I asked who you are.”

She understood the statement and, bowing a little, said, “I apologize for my denseness. I am a resident of the Convent of the West Lake Saint.”

“This, this Convent… we’re there? This is where we are now?”

“Yes, sir.”

He eyed her again and, as a reflex, she shrank away, but he said nothing except, “You were changing my bandages?”

“Yes.”

“Did you finish?”

“All but your chest.” She pointed. “You’re hurt worst there, I think.”

“And they send a little girl like you down to do this?”

She was blushing now, she could feel. “I’m seventeen. And I’ve been trained to heal people. You don’t need to worry. If you’d like to do it yourself – I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

In truth, she herself didn’t want to be uncomfortable, and she realized she was shivering now; he seemed endlessly more alive when he was awake than when he slept, and she didn’t want to touch him for fear of being burned.

He laughed. “Do this myself? What, you think I’m a healer?”

She said nothing and did not move. He was watching her, she could tell, but she ached not to meet his eyes and kept hers fastened on the ground. Finally he said, “You’re a priestess?”

“Oh, no,” she said, glad to have something to say. “I’m a foundling.”

“An orphan?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

He clicked his tongue at the honorific. “Do you know what I am, Anne?”

“No.”

“I’m a mercenary.”

It figured that he would have an unholy profession, and probably didn’t even believe the first part of the things they worshipped there at the convent, but she kept her mouth shut and her eyes down. She now realized that she was running a hand through her hair and stopped. Her hair was down. Why was it down? Oh, yes, she had let it down during lunch. That figured, too.

“Don’t have anything to say to that?” he asked. “I hear you all hate mercenaries at places like this.”

“I have no opinion,” she muttered.

“Well,” he said, after a pause, “are you going to finish?”

“Finish what?”

“Bandaging me.”

She shrank back almost involuntarily. “But, no… I could not…”

“Oh,” he said, laughing, “it’s different when I’m awake?”

She stepped forward to toss the bandages onto the bed. “Do it yourself.”

“I’m not a doctor, I told you. I can’t do it.” He tried to push himself into a sitting position and failed, slumping down on the bed. “Look at me. I’m injured. I’m too weak. I can’t…”

Anne edged nearer, not wanting to touch him, worried about something she couldn’t imagine, something she’d never before thought of, and the man kept that silly smile stuck on his face, that boyish grin. It made Anne feel like an idiot, though she didn’t exactly know why.

“At least help me sit up,” he said, trying again. This, at least, Anne felt she could help with; she could hardly stand to the side, cold as ice, and watch him try to right himself and fail. She gripped one arm, careful to avoid the bandage, and supported him as he pulled himself up.

“Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem.” She backed up again now, further than before. The man clutched at the bedposts and examined his stomach and chest.

“I’m hurt pretty badly, aren’t I?” He looked at her. “You’re a healer. How bad is it?”

“I haven’t seen it,” she said, smiling tensely. “How should I know?”

She could only watch as he seized an end of the bandage and ripped the entire thing away from his skin. Both of them gasped, the man from the pain, Anne from the sight: the wound was open, gaping, a slash that went diagonally across almost his entire torso, from his right shoulder to his left hip; it looked as if it would shortly begin to bleed again.

The man swore and clutched at himself as if trying to halt the pain. Anne lurched towards him, hesitating for a moment before perching on the edge of the bed and grabbing onto one of his shoulders.

“Stop moving,” she said. Then, again, when he didn’t respond: “Stop it!”

He stopped, or mostly did, his convulsions slowing slightly; with shaking hands, Anne picked up the bandages and wrapped the wound.

It took forever to finish, but at least the man did not pay any attention to her; it seemed almost as if he was in a daze, his face ashen. When she finished Anne sat back, wondering if he would throw up.

He looked better now, though, and looked down at his own hands. They had some blood on them, Anne saw, and she leapt up.

“Where are you going?”

His voice was weak now, and it startled her so much that she turned around. “To get a cloth,” she said. “For your hands.”

He looked down again as if seeing them for the first time. “Oh.”

“I’ll be back.”

He said nothing more and she returned in a few moments, carrying a little bowl filled with water and a cloth. He took it but his hands were shaking and he spilled water, so Anne took it out of his grip, dipped the cloth in, and gave him that.

“Thank you,” he said, then stopped. “Anne.”

“What?”

“Thank you. I – I didn’t mean to do that. I meant to unwrap it little by little, and I didn’t think – I didn’t want – ”

Anne said nothing and he didn’t finish the thought. She turned to leave but his voice stopped her. “Can I request something?”

“You can.”

“But will my request be granted?”

A pause. “Depends on what it is.”

“Well… can you be the one to come back tomorrow? They bring me my food but they don’t talk to me, just ignore me.”

“That’s because the priestesses aren’t allowed to talk to men here.”

“Oh. Well, can you come? I like conversation. I don’t like… the silence, or the dark.”

“I have to take the torch with me.”

He sighed. “At least you didn’t bandage up my face again.”

“Oh, I forgot!…”

“Don’t. I won’t let you do that. My head… it’s just bruised, and it’s not worth going blind for… just leave it.”

“All right.” To tell the truth, Anne didn’t want to touch his skin, and even the sight of him there was bringing a flush of embarrassment to her face.

“But will you come?”

She bit her lip, staring at the floor, before finally saying, “I’ll try.” Then: “I don’t even know your name!”

He grinned weakly. “I’ll tell you tomorrow if you come.”