The pulse beneath Tobin’s jaw fluttered three times, like the erratic wing-beats of a moth trapped against a lantern pane, and then ceased.
The sixteen-year-old courier’s head tilted slightly to the side, his chin coming to rest against the rough, blood-soaked wool of his collar. The faint warmth that had lingered in his cheeks vanished into the river air, replaced by the dull, waxy pallor of cold tallow. His fingers, which had clung so desperately to Jon’s wrist, slid away completely, falling limp onto the wet timber decking with a soft, final patter.
The falls roared on beneath them, indifferent to the passing of a boy from the lower valleys.
Jon Hale did not move. He sat on the muddy timber platform with his back pressed against the granite housing, his arms cradling Tobin’s light, fragile torso against his chest. River spray coated his hair and beard with freezing droplets, running down his face in cold beads that mingled with the hot tears he refused to wipe away. His hands, caked in clotting blood and river grime, rested over the boy’s silent ribs, feeling the terrible stillness that no domestic art could ever undo.
Alden Bram stepped forward, his boots squelching in the red mire that coated the walkway. The master mason knelt in the spray, his square-headed adze resting against his thigh. Without speaking, Bram reached into his coat, drew out a clean strip of grey homespun wool he used for wrapping his fine chisels, and gently draped it…
