Chapter 8
The truce held, but sleep didn't come easy. The mattress was nothing more than a thin pad stuffed with straw over hard wooden planks. Every time Eve shifted her weight, a hard ridge of wood would dig into her hip or her shoulder.
A few nights into their silent cohabitation, she rolled over slightly too fast. Her elbow cracked against the solid wooden edge of the bed frame. Pain shot up her arm, sharp and immediate, making her gasp and squeeze her eyes shut.
She didn't cry out. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She just bit her lip and waited for the throb to fade. But the damage was done. The spot would bruise, adding to the mosaic of colors already painting her skin.
She glanced over at Cato. He was lying next to her, his eyes closed, his breathing deep. She thought he was asleep. She let out a quiet, frustrated sigh and tried to find a position that didn't involve a piece of wood stabbing her.
The next afternoon, Cato put on his boots and walked out the door. Eve assumed he was going to his work detail at the fortress. She spent the long hours staring at the ceiling, trying to flex her ankles, plotting her escape, and wondering how she was going to get her strength back.
When the sun began to set, the door creaked open. Cato walked in, but he wasn't carrying water or firewood. He had a massive burlap sack slung over his shoulder. It looked heavy, the fabric straining at the seams.
He dropped it on the floor with a soft thud. Eve watched, her curiosity piqued, as he untied the cord at the top. He reached in and pulled out a handful of silvery-white fiber. It wasn't cotton. It was softer, with a strange luminescence, like spun moonlight. She had never seen anything like it. It smelled faintly of high mountain air and frost.
Eve frowned. This wasn't something you could buy at a market. This was something you found.
Cato didn't offer an explanation. He pulled out a needle, some thick thread, and a few yards of unbleached muslin. He sat down on the stool, positioned the lamp closer to his hands, and began to work.
He was making a mattress pad.
Eve watched, mesmerized, as he stuffed the glowing fiber into the muslin casing. His hands were made for heavy labor-hauling rocks, swinging axes. They were too big for the tiny needle. His movements were slow, not clumsy, but painstakingly deliberate. His brows furrowed in concentration, and he guided the needle through the thick fabric with a surgeon's focus, as if each stitch was a critical suture.
Suddenly, he jerked. The needle had slipped, driving deep into the pad of his index finger. A bead of dark red blood welled up.
Eve held her breath, waiting for him to swear, to throw the needle down, to show some sign of frustration. But Cato just stared at his finger for a moment. He wiped the blood on his pants, picked the needle back up, and went right back to sewing, his rhythm unbroken, his patience as vast and silent as the mountain itself.
He spent the entire night on it. The rhythmic sound of the needle piercing fabric filled the quiet shack. Eve watched the lamplight play over his sharp features, the intense focus in his eyes, the way he stubbornly refused to give up on a task he was clearly unsuited for.
Why? The question pounded in her head. Why go through all this trouble? Why climb to the highest peaks for a mythical plant fiber for her? Why prick his fingers bloody just so she wouldn't bruise against the wood? It made no sense. She was nothing to him. A burden. A criminal.
When the first gray light of dawn crept through the cracks, he tied off the final stitch. He stood up, his joints popping, and walked over to the bed. He carefully lifted Eve in his arms, setting her gently on the stool. He stripped the thin straw pad off the bed and replaced it with the thick, plush pad he had just made.
He picked her up again and laid her back down.
The difference was staggering. The mattress yielded to her weight, cradling her aching bones. The pressure on her hips and shoulders vanished, replaced by a soft, supportive cloud. She felt like she was floating.
Cato kicked off his boots and lay down beside her, his usual routine unbroken.
Eve lay there, staring at the ceiling. The new pad smelled faintly of the sun and the raw, clean scent of the mountain peaks. She turned her head slightly, looking at the side of his face in the dim light. He had closed his eyes immediately, his breathing already slowing.
She didn't turn away this time. She let herself look at him, really look, for the first time since he had dragged her out of the dirt. She didn't understand him. He was a walking contradiction-a menial with the skills of a surgeon, a silent watcher who performed impossible feats for a stranger's comfort.
The fear and the anger were still there, but they were being drowned out by something much more dangerous: curiosity.
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