Uma kept trying. Her mouth kept opening. Her throat kept working.
"..."
"..."
Please. Please, please, please — anything. A sound. Just one sound.
"..."
Tears spilled over before she registered they were coming. They landed on the chalkboard, on the letters N A — E, smearing the chalk into grey streaks.
She slid sideways out of the chair and hit the floor on her knees.
Ms. Red and Mr. Blacksmith were up instantly, Ms. Red dropping down beside her, Mr. Blacksmith hovering with his hands half-raised like he'd forgotten what hands were for.
Uma's chest hurt.
Everything hurt.
She tried to throw up. The gagging made no sound. Her body was moving through the motions of every noise she'd ever made and producing none of them, and that was the thing — that was the exact thing — that finally broke her.
She felt arms around her. Ms. Red was pulling her in, tight, one hand on the back of her head, fingers moving through her hair. Mr. Blacksmith was saying something low and useless.
Uma started sobbing in earnest. Her shoulders shook. Her throat worked. Nothing came out except air and the wet catch of breath in a damaged windpipe.
It's gone. It's actually gone.
And then, worse — so much worse — the place on her throat where the sickle had caught her started to hurt.
Fresh. Raw. Like it was happening right now.
The barn. The hay. The jaw hanging wrong. The wet gargle that had come out of her when she'd tried to scream.
She started to choke.
Her hand flew to her throat and she scratched at it, desperate, like if she could just get to the scar she could dig the sound back out — and she wasn't even aware she was doing it. Wasn't aware of the blood under her fingernails.
She was sliding out of consciousness when a huge hand slapped her on the back.
Hard.
The air came back in a rush.
She blinked, gasping, and twisted around.
Mr. Blacksmith stood behind her with his palm red from the impact, looking exactly like a man who had made an enormous decision and was now reconsidering every part of it.
Right.
Right. Kitchen. I'm in the kitchen.
She turned back to Ms. Red — whose arms were still around her, whose face was doing something Uma hadn't seen on a grown woman before, at least not aimed at her. Something soft and fierce at the same time. Something very much like I will kill anything that did this to you.
Ms. Red barked something at Mr. Blacksmith. He fled.
They sat there on the kitchen floor, Ms. Red not loosening her grip at all, Uma's breathing slowly — slowly — coming back under control.
Mr. Blacksmith returned with a bundle of bandages. Ms. Red helped Uma to her feet without letting go of her hand.
She was guided out of the kitchen, into the hall, through another door.
Rows of books.
...The library?
Ms. Red knelt down in front of her and began wrapping her throat — her voice soft now, slow, the kind of tone you'd use with a spooked animal. Uma didn't understand the words. She didn't care.
She sat on the couch like a doll someone had propped up.
A messed-up, damaged doll.
Ms. Red sat down next to her and held out a children's book.
You want me to read. Right now. Really.
But Ms. Red gave her a look — the kind of look Uma had only ever seen mothers give their kids — one that left no room for argument.
Uma took the book.
She opened it. The words scrambled on the page like they always did, but she forced her way through — one word, then the next, then the next. She handed it back.
"The."
Uma's head snapped up.
Wait—
She'd understood her.
She'd understood her.
Ms. Red had clocked it at the exact same moment, eyes brightening. She turned and said something sharp to Mr. Blacksmith, who'd been hovering in the doorway. He straightened and left.
Ms. Red settled in beside Uma and opened another book.
"Slow."
She tapped the first word.
Like hell.
Uma tried to stand up to leave. Ms. Red's hand landed on her shoulder with surprising strength, and Uma found herself very firmly redirected back onto the couch.
Okay. Yup, got the memo
Uma kept her eyes on the book. She did not look up. She did not want to see Ms. Red's face right now, because she could feel it in her peripheral vision — that particular kind of maternal smile that contained both you're doing so well and I am watching you, do not try it again.
She finished the book. Handed it back.
"Good."
Another book appeared in her hands.
She read. Ms. Red repeated single words. Food. Home. Sleep.
Uma's hands tightened on her thighs at one point.
What am I doing. I can't speak. This woman is making me read children's books. There are bigger problems here, dammit.
...It does feel kind of nice, though.
Ms. Red got up, disappeared, and returned with two mugs of tea. She set one next to Uma and took a sip from her own. The next book appeared.
They read.
Uma burned her tongue on the tea twice. Neither of them acknowledged it. The stack of finished books grew on Ms. Red's other side.
After a long while, Uma's eyes started to get heavy. She yawned silently. At some point — she didn't catch when — her head came to rest on Ms. Red's shoulder.
She caught a glimpse, just before she drifted off, of the smile on Ms. Red's face.
Maybe...
Maybe this situation isn't so bad.
When Ms. Red felt Uma go fully slack against her side, she set her tea down and shifted carefully, easing Uma's head from her shoulder to a pillow without disturbing her. She stood slowly. She crossed the room to the chair by the window, took the blanket draped over it, and came back.
She tucked it around Uma.
She watched her for a long moment.
Then she kissed her own fingertips and pressed them gently to Uma's forehead, brushing the hair out of her face.
"Rest well, Little Ghost."