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Chapter 2
He’d removed her blindfold in a manner that screamed “Ta-da!”.
Elsa looked around, her vision blurry at first after the blindfold. There wasn’t much to see. Snow, which fell straight and heavy in the clearing beyond the protection of the trees, made her surroundings thick and fuzzy, like the static on television after-broadcast. She rubbed her eyes, the leather of her heavy mitts soft against her cheeks, and squinted into the night. A short distance away, stood the silhouette of a structure, a black void in the all-around darkness. Dropping her gaze to the circle of light at their feet, dirt, grass, and wood chips poked through trampled snow.
“At last,” she said, unsure, almost a question.
Lijah grunted. “Come on, this way.”
He nudged her with his elbow, otherwise keeping his distance, and they walked side-by-side to the cottage. They mounted three steps onto a deep porch and kicked their shoes free of snow. He ushered her through a tall, wide, thick and ornately carved door. Elsa’s gaze trailed behind her, but she caught little more than a glimpse of the deep engravings. Her impression was of multiple, elaborate pictographs or scenes, and that the carvings were incomplete, a work in progress. Lijah used his weight to shoulder the door closed, sealing it tightly with a soft whump.
Elsa stayed by the entrance as Lijah busied himself with turning on lights and settling in. The cottage was large, warm, rustic and orderly. It was not at all what she’d expected given the cramped clutter of his in-town apartment and office at college, but she felt the rightness of the space almost immediately. Directly opposite, and some 30 feet distant, an interior wall divided the great room from the kitchen which she saw clearly through a wide doorless opening. Every inch of the divider from floor to ceiling was covered in books. The ladder on rollers, complete with brass rail, could easily belong in the library of a manor. To her left a fireplace flanked in windows, the hearth and mantle solid blocks of rough-hewn granite, the andirons loaded with kindling and logs ready to light. To her right a neatly made bed and long L-shaped desk that filled the front corner. Otherwise more windows and a couple of doorways, probably to a bathroom, maybe a guestroom. In between, scattered throughout the great room, a small dining table, chairs and side tables, lamps and sofa: simple furnishings, both practical and comfortable. Unlike his apartment, which felt like an extension of his office, here was home.
“Take off your coat, cape, make yourself comfortable. I’ll light the fire and work on tea.”
Elsa did as she was told, exchanging fat mitts for thin leather gloves, and boots with thick woolen socks. She walked around the room, observing his things more closely. Framed photos sat on the mantle, snapshots rather than portraits of people she’d never met, although by the likeness one was surely his sister. Alongside those were found objects neatly placed: a nautilus shell, an arrowhead, a railroad spike, a beach stone. In one window hung a mobile of glass prisms and a shelf held what looked like a Faberge egg, next to it an old wooden chisel. An unfinished puzzle on a felt topped table sat beneath a flat computer screen mounted on the wall. Now that she noticed, there was quite a bit of technology in evidence: a sophisticated sound system and multiple display screens, expertly placed, functional and inconspicuous.
She heard him speaking. “What?” she called out.
Lijah poked his head out from the kitchen. “Sorry, just calling up a recipe. Music?”
“Sure. Bathroom?”
He tilted his head to the left. “Center door.” He stood as if stuck for a moment, then disappeared back in the kitchen.
The bathroom was unexpectedly large. It had all the usual features: closet, sink, toilet and walk-in shower, but also a couple of dresser drawers, washer, dryer and pull-down folding table. Efficient and practical except for the old-fashioned, deep and capacious claw-footed bathtub that dominated the room. A shelf on the wall ran its length and contained everything from soap, sponge and candles, to books, binoculars and a laptop. Lijah lounged in the tub? If he painted his toenails pink, she’d have been no less surprised. Above the tub a large picture window. She turned out the light to see into the night. The glow that spilled from the kitchen windows revealed heavy snowfall, in the near distance a cluster of giant oaks and what might be a small, fenced cemetery. Beyond that was hidden.
Lijah had selected Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, the sound coming from all directions but the volume low enough to speak over easily. Elsa stood in the doorway and quietly watched him cook. He looked at ease, domestic with a dishtowel over his shoulder, his movements practiced and efficient.
“Nice tub,” said Elsa.
Lijah jerked and the chef’s knife clattered to the floor. “Ow. Shit.” He bent forward, clutching his left hand to his body and sucked in a breath between his teeth.
Elsa grimaced. “Sorry. What can I do?”
“Lemon juice. I’m fine.” He turned to block her view, then snatched the towel from his shoulder and wrapped it around his hand. He pressed the bundle to his body to hold the towel in place, then stooped, scooped up the knife, and threw it into the sink. “Dammit.”
“Here, come to the sink. We’ll rinse it off. I have a Band-Aid in my bag if…” Her voice trailed off. He’d searched her bag; he knew exactly what she had and didn’t have and she felt exposed all over again. She turned on the faucets, pushed up her sleeve and held her arm under the water until it warmed.
Lijah stood behind her waiting as she adjusted the water temperature. “Dammit” he said again, this time quietly, under his breath.
When the temperature was right, Elsa turned to him and gawked. Dark red blood had soaked through the towel and was now staining his shirt. Stepping to the side, she pulled him to the sink. She tried to help, but he slapped her hand away. He unwrapped the towel himself and stuck his hand, glove and all, under the running water. Dark blood flowed freely. It filled the glove and dripped into the sink, turning bright crimson against the white porcelain before swirling down the drain.
“Lijah…you need more than a Band-Aid.”
“I know.” Keeping his hand over the sink, he moved it out of the flow of water and started to gingerly pull at each finger in turn to remove the glove.
“Here, I can help. Let me do that,” said Elsa, crowding in close. He was cut, badly. The glove had to come off. Clearly, she should help.
“Stop, Elsa. I can do it myself. I’m not a child,” he said, sounding as petulant one.
God, as if she were foisting herself on him. Helping him bare his hand made her just as uncomfortable, but it was so obviously the correct thing to do. Her two hands would be gentler than his one and certainly more adept for whatever came next. Careful to sound the voice of reason, Elsa tried again.
“There’s no reason to be embarrassed.” Which was, of course, a lie. There was every reason to be embarrassed. After the glove, the sheath would have to be removed, exposing his naked hand. Showing hands was more intimate than sex. It only occurred in the context of trusting and committed relationships. For most, showing hands represented a more binding consummation than the conjugal one. Some chose never to reveal that aspect of themselves, married or not. Her relationship with Lijah was close, intimate in its own way, but within scrupulously and mutually maintained professional boundaries. In no way was showing hands appropriate.
Except in a medical emergency.
“Lijah. It’s awkward, but necessary. Get over it.”
She saw his flash of anger, but whatever he said was drowned out by a deafening alarm. They both jumped at the claxon. Elsa spun around, scanning the room frantically, having no idea what was happening. Lijah jerked the glove from his hand and dropped it in the sink.
“Computer,” said Lijah. “Problem identified. Alarm off. Stove off. Vent on. High.”
Elsa’s gaze darted about the room as the alarm silenced and the burner flames snuffed out with a pop. Smoke curled from the burnt remains in the skillet. The stove hood came on, the noise a strong but steady background hum.
Lijah ducked his shoulder blocking Elsa’s view. She saw his jaw clench, then heard the wet smack of what must have been his sheath tossed into the sink. He kept his back to Elsa and bumped her out of the way to get a clean towel from a drawer by the sink. He draped it over the wound and clamped his other hand on top.
“Elsa. Crack that window,” said Lijah, pointing with his elbow.
“What?” It took a moment for the words to sink in, but when they did, she moved quickly, throwing a glance over her shoulder toward the sink. “The water’s still running.”
“Water. Off,” said Lijah to the room.
The level of automation was astounding. Voice command technology was the norm for computers and phones, but she’d never seen it so fully integrated into everyday household systems. Someone must have set it up for him. She’d seen him flummoxed by the office coffee maker.
She unlocked and cranked open the window. Cold air, smelling of pine and snow, pushed into the room, helping dissipate the smell of burnt food. She turned around, and saw Lijah rooted in place, staring at her.
“You’re dripping.”
Lijah jolted and moved his hand back over the sink. “So I am.”
Elsa came to his side and saw the glove and sheath lying in the sink. Relief that she hadn’t had to be the one to do it mixed with acute awareness of his hand stripped bare beneath the towel.
“Pull that screen over here, would you? Sink lights. Up. Display. Hand laceration. Diagnostic assessment. Move please, I need to open the cupboard.” Elsa staggered back a few steps. The way he switched back and forth between speaking to her and the room at large was bewildering.
Lijah tilted the screen downward then dropped to his knees in front of the open door. “Zone 2. Stop. Back. Zone 3.” He crouched on the floor, scanning through the information on screen above him, supplying keywords to scroll up and down and move through the clinical decision tree. Simultaneously, he pulled bins from the cupboard onto the floor. One had bandages, tape, scissors and the like, another ointments, salves, antiseptics, and analgesics. The bins kept coming: syringes, sutures, and supplies in sterile packaging, vials and pills, prescription medicines.
“Christ Lijah, you’re stocked for the End Times. Tell me what you’re looking for.”
He dumped a bin onto the floor, scrabbling through items in sterile packaging before snatching one up and comparing it to the image on the screen.
“Lijah,” said Elsa more forcefully. She squatted next to him, rested her hand on his knee. “I can help.”
Lijah slowly tore his eyes from the screen and looked at her as if surprised she was there.
“There’s tea and scones on the tray. Should still be hot. Take them in the other room. I’ll join you in a bit.”
Elsa kept her eyes locked on his. “I don’t think so.”
Lijah stared at her for a long moment. “I can manage.”
“No doubt. And would, too, if you were alone. But you’re not. Let me help you.”
Lijah sighed and assumed an attitude of forbearance. “My hand will be bare.”
“I promise not to look.”
Lijah snorted. He took several deep breaths. “Fuck.”
Elsa gave him a weak smile. She agreed. Fuck.
“Do you have any medical training?” he asked.
“No.” She gestured with her head toward the screen. “I’m a quick study though. Come on, let’s get you off the floor.”
She scrambled to her own feet, then steadied him by the elbow while he stood. They surveyed the mess on the floor, the blood splattered sink, the burnt food on the stove.
“We’ll deal with it later,” said Elsa, stepping through the supplies that littered the floor to close the window.
“Vent. Off,” said Lijah and took a seat at the kitchen table.
Elsa returned and sat across from him. “Let’s take a look.”
He set his injured hand on the table between them but hesitated. “Elsa…”
She waved him off. “Come on, off with it.”
Exasperated, Lijah unwound the cloth and used it like a compress against the laceration. He pressed the back of his hand to the table to maintain pressure against the wound, then opened his fingers, exposing his bare palm.
She didn’t understand why he’d chosen to present his hand palm up since the cut had obviously been across the top, but before she could say as much, she took a good look.
“Oh,” she said. He had some sort of disease or deformity. That was her first thought, because parts of his fingers and palm were lumpy, the skin yellowed, creased and nicked. An instant later she recognized the rough discolored mounds for what they were. Thickened skin like on the heel of a foot.
“You’re calloused. I mean, your hand, it has calluses.” Elsa looked up. “Lijah, you’re Crafter.”
Lijah looked at her sharply, his eyes searching hers. As abruptly his expression went blank. He leaned back and crossed his legs. He didn’t try and cover his hand, but instead cradled it palm up in his lap. “How very astute of you.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she said.
“How reassuring.”
Elsa hated it when he adopted that tone; so fucking superior.
“I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s a compliment. You know as well as I that, historically, Crafters seldom pursued careers in academia. It’s a testament that…
“That I’ve overcome this handicap?”
“Nooo. It’s a testament that the times have changed. It’s why we cover our hands, Lijah. So that we’re not bound to society’s preconceived notions of what we can and cannot do.”
“Nooo,” said Lijah. “We cover our hands to protect our prejudices. To let them thrive hidden and unchallenged. A generations’ long, global policy of don’t ask, don’t tell to ensure society’s preconceived notions persist.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, you can’t seriously be drawing a parallel between Enlightenment and that policy against gays in the military. The one is humanity’s great leap forward, a global consensus to change the course of history, the other a passing blip, a stupid rule born of homophobia and misinformation.”
“I’m just a Crafter. I wouldn’t know.”
Elsa would have liked to hit him for that. They locked eyes; their argument continued in stony silence. Elsa looked away first and drummed her fingers.
“You are embarrassed. If not about being Crafter, then… Look. There’s no need. It’s not like we’re showing hands. You’re injured.”
“I’m not embarrassed. I’ve changed my mind. This isn’t happening. Not like this.”
“Like this? You mean drenched in blood? Because I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what’s happening.”
“I made a mistake. It’s best if you leave. The room, for now. First thing in the morning, I’ll take you home.”
She reached for him. “Come on. You didn’t make a mistake. It’s not like you meant to cut your hand. You had an accident. Accidents happen. Take a deep breath, show me your injury and together we’ll get you patched up. Beyond that,” she said, smiling coyly, in jest, trying to be cute, “I promise, I won’t look.”
“Goddammit, Elsa,” snarled Lijah, face red, teeth bared. “Back off.”
Elsa reared back as if slapped. “Is this you being afraid? It doesn’t suit.”
“This is me telling you to back the fuck off whether it suits or not.”
Elsa stood up, kicked through the mess on the floor, and stormed from the room. She headed directly for the hooks where they’d hung their coats by the front door. She quickly changed out of her socks and indoor gloves into boots, cape and mitts, and slung her satchel over her shoulder. Hand on the door she remembered, no phone. She tore off her mitts, rifled through Lijah’s coat pockets until she found his phone and, feeling triumphant, pocketed it, pulled her mitts back on and reached for the door.
“I’m leaving,” she called. “I’m taking your phone for the GPS.”
“It won’t do you any good,” Lijah called back.
Like hell it wouldn’t. She knew his password; he swiped a stupid star shape across the screen. She’d seen him do it a hundred times. She yanked the heavy door open, stepped onto the porch, and pulled the door closed behind her. Because the door sat so snugly in its frame, it didn’t close completely. She spun around, grabbed the handle with both hands, and tried again, this time using her muscle and weight to seal it shut.
Silence reigned. The dark of night, the cold air against her face and the peace of the steady snowfall, settled her emotions like a snuffer on a flame. She leaned back against the door, breathed deeply of the clean, crisp air, and consciously exhaled into the hush of the night. Fucking Lijah. Another deep breath and she admitted to herself, fucking Elsa. He pushed, she pushed harder. If one of them backpedaled, still the other pushed harder. It was how they engaged. Because they were stubborn. And because what was important to one, became, by default, important to the other. Elsa didn’t know why Lijah had invited her here, but understood that whatever his reasons, they mattered to him deeply. His extreme precautions proved how important as did his disappointment over plans derailed and his subsequent behavior.
She’d worn a blindfold to get here, goddammit, like hell he could send her away.
She remained outside giving herself, and Lijah, time to regroup. It was still and comfortingly cold out there on the porch. She watched the snow fall in big, fat, fluffy flakes and noticed that their tracks up to the cottage had almost disappeared. In the light through the windows she retraced their path back from the porch out into the clearing. He’d led her in circles, back and forth, obscuring the direction from which they’d come. To hide the entrance through the hedgerow. To prevent her from leaving on her own. She didn’t want to leave, not really, but seeing she couldn’t, at least not without effort, planted the seed.
She pulled out Lijah’s phone. She freed her hand from the mitt and swiped his passcode to unlock it. She scrolled through the icons, of which there were a huge number, many she’d never seen before. Finally, she found the one for making a call buried four screens back. Ridiculous, who did that? She selected it, thinking about who she might call, what she might say. The application didn’t open. She tried repeatedly, returning to the porch, holding the phone up in different directions. She tried other applications: GPS, music, camera. None of them would launch. Some sort of advanced security? On Lijah’s phone? As of this morning she would never have guessed, but now she’d seen his fully automated secret cottage in the woods.
She looked back and forth between the door, the clearing, and the phone, and considered her options. She had exactly one. She went back inside.