The Edge of Hell: The Mitchell Brothers Series Book One

5

Wolstan remained in his room for the first two weeks after his return, too debilitated to do anything beyond eating and sleeping. Although it felt a lie to call it sleep when what little rest he got came in short, sporadic naps.

Vivid nightmares plagued him, regardless of the time of day, whenever he drifted off, leaving him drenched in sweat and trembling like a leaf.

When he awoke, he would stumble to his washstand and scrub at his hands and forearms until the skin cracked and bled. He couldn't shake from his mind the vision of them covered in lice and thick layers of grime.

By mid-June, Wolstan was strong enough to venture from his room. He decided to bathe in the family bathhouse one night after everyone had retired for the evening, hoping it would relax him enough to help him sleep.

He soaked in the steaming water until he started shivering from the cold. Then he scrubbed every speck of dirt from his body with a cake of pine and sandalwood soap and the horsehair bristle laundry brush he'd hidden among his clean clothes.

The water was tinged a soapy pale pink once he was done, and tiny beads of blood dotted his raw skin as he toweled off. But for the first time in months after washing himself, he didn't feel like he was still covered in dirt and crawling with vermin.

Wolstan dressed and drained the tub, trying to ignore the guilt and shame twisting his gut at the thought of someone discovering the result of his bath.

No one would understand—how could they when they hadn't lived through it? And he sure as hell didn't want to waste his breath explaining when he was struggling to forget the whole damned mess.

After gathering his belongings, Wolstan tucked them under his right arm, picked up the brush, grabbed his lantern off the hook, and opened the bathhouse door. Then he muttered an expletive at finding Mae walking toward him on the grass path.

She held a wicker basket of clothing and towels in the crook of her left arm and clutched a lantern in her right hand. It swung to and fro, lending a gentle squeak to the high-pitched buzzing of cicadas on the night air.

"Evening," she said, her steps slowing.

Wolstan nodded and quickly hid the laundry brush, tucking it in the back of his waistband. "I was just leaving."

"Yes, I see that," She replied with a kind smile bending her lips as she walked closer. But then it slipped from her face, replaced with a look of genuine concern, "Oh, dear."

"What?" he said, trying to keep his tone devoid of the panic flooding his veins. Had he not been fast enough at hiding the brush?

"You're bleeding," she informed him, setting her items on the ground and digging around for something at the bottom of the basket.

"I am?" Wolstan dumbly said, his cheeks flushing with embarrassed heat as he glanced at his arms. He bit back an expletive at finding bloody smears staining his shirt and drying on both forearms and hands.

"Here it is," Mae declared. Her lips bent into a victorious smile as she withdrew a small fat jar with a cork top. She straightened to her full height, and handed it to him. "This will help soothe and heal your wounds... I used to make it for my daddy and brothers when their hands would get scraped and chapped from working on our farm."

Wolstan's gaze darted between Mae's pretty, upturned face and the jar, torn. He could either accept the offering by acting the gentleman he'd been brought up to be or escape to his room and wash off the blood and pretend this humiliating moment had never occurred.

"It's a salve... I promise it smells real nice," Mae softly coaxed, uncorking and lifting the jar to his nose. "See? You can use it without fearing you'll smell like you've been doused in your mama's perfume."