He guided the child’s tongue in his hand, where the femoral artery latia like a pinched pajaro. When he arrived, the boy opened his coup eyes. He raised his sight, not to the doctor, but to Zainab.
—An angel —graznó el niño, with the voice full of delirium—. Are you… in the garden?
“You are in the hands of destiny,” Zainab replied suavely.
As the first gray light of the lover filters through the contraventanas, the fibers of the child are repressed. The wound was clear, the artery was covered with the delicacy of a cleaning. Yusha was sitting on a saddle next to the chimenea, with the red hands, covered in the blood of his enemy’s son.
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The messenger, watching from a corner, stepped forward. He looked at the silver instruments on the table and then at Yusha’s face, now fully illuminated by the morning light.
“I remember you,” said the messenger. He was a child when the governor’s daughter died. I saw your portrait in the town square. There was a price on your head that lasted five years.
Yusha didn’t look up. “Then stop it. Call the guards.”
The messenger looked at the sleeping child, heir to a province, saved by the doomed man. He looked at Zainab, who stood like a sentry, her sightless eyes fixed on the messenger as if she could see the rot in his soul.
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