Len reached out with his uninjured right hand. He took the blood-soaked cotton handkerchief from Heth Ash’s trembling fingers. The cloth was soaked, heavy, and already stiffening at the edges where the cold air was freezing the blood foam into dark, reddish-purple crystals. He folded the square in half, then in half again, hiding the bright crimson center beneath the clean gray margins. Then he tucked it into the inner pocket of his courier vest.
A courier learned early that fear in an injured passenger was as lethal as a cut vein. If a girl saw how much of her own blood was on the cloth, her pulse would spike, her blood pressure would surge. The damaged lung vessels would tear open again before they could clear the doorway.
Heth’s head lay back against her father’s shoulder, her breathing shallow, fragile, and whistling through her teeth like steam leaking from a cracked kettle. Bram Ash remained motionless on his knees in the center of the aisle. He held his fourteen-year-old daughter against his chest as if he were an iron statue welded to the floorboards. His heavy hands trembled against her wool blanket, his eyes fixed on the empty floor drain where the thin wisp of ozone vapor had begun to curl toward the ceiling.
