Beatrice looked from his bleeding hands to his sweat-streaked face. She didn't offer pity; she knew instinctively that pity would be the one thing that would make him turn on his heel and leave. She stepped forward. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a clean, torn strip of linen she had salvaged from a ruined sheet to use as a dusting rag. She held it out to him.
"Wrap them," she said simply. "Or you'll get an infection from the bark, and I won't have time to nurse you. I have dinner to make."
Arthur stared at the white cloth. He looked at her face, searching for mockery, searching for the clawing sympathy he despised. He found neither. He found only the weary, practical gaze of a woman who understood exactly what it cost to survive the day.
Slowly, his jaw unclenching, he reached out and took the cloth. His fingers brushed hers; they were ice cold.
"Thank you," he muttered, the words barely audible.
"Thank you for the wood," she replied.
He turned and walked out. Beatrice knelt by the hearth. She built a teepee of kindling, struck a flint, and watched as the small flame caught. The fire grew greedy and bright, pushing back the damp chill of the room.
For the first time in months, Beatrice felt warm.
The stew lasted three days. On the fourth morning, Beatrice scraped the bottom of the iron pot, finding nothing but hardened grease. She washed her hands, dried them on her apron, and walked to the study.
Arthur was sitting in the leather wingback chair. He wasn't drinking. The brandy bottle on the side table was completely empty, and he was staring at it with a tight, drawn expression that spoke of a deep physical craving. His hands, unwrapped in dirty linen, were resting on the armrests. He was shaking slightly.
Beatrice didn't knock. She stepped into the room, bringing the cold air of the hallway with her.
"We are out of food," she said.
Arthur didn't look up. "There are potatoes."