“O my Father, guide me now,” he said, but he did not need Sheul to find what he was seeking. He had laid the bait for this most particular prey himself.

Near to the stream where he had brought his mimuts to be butchered lay a small, reeking heap—wet flaps of skin cut from the belly where winter’s fat was thickest, tailbones and the sagging pouch of the anus, intestines, feet, ears. It was too cold in these early hours for the carrion-beetles to crawl droning over his offering, but he could hear their countless bodies grinding together deep in the rotting flesh.

Meoraq knelt and brought out his makeshift pouch. He lifted a rancid coil of intestine, unleashing a plume of steam and fresh stink into the air. The beetles burrowed deeper, leaving their offspring to squirm together, exposed to morning’s chill.

Nauseating. He did not hesitate. He ran his open hand along the rumpled surface of rotting offal, taking exquisite care not to crush the larvae. He could not feel them in his hand, but seeing them there was bad enough. No matter. He shook them gently onto the sleeve and reached down for more. It took some effort to target only the larvae and not the mess they were feeding upon, but he had all he needed in just a few more passes and soon returned to the underlodge with the churning mess of them unpleasantly secured in the sleeve.

Amber had not moved, save to throw off her blanket. He let her alone for now while he arranged a fresh compress and bandage for her. Last of all, he took a dried leaf of phesok from the pot by the hearth and put it in his mouth. The taste was golden, surprisingly sweet, not at all what he’d expected. He chewed resolutely as he returned to his wife’s side and cleaned away the old, soured dressings.

She moaned, but turned toward him when he put his hand on her cheek. He spat juice into her mouth. She sputtered, swallowed, panted, all without opening her eyes.

Meoraq watched her for a time, then grunted and brought out his carrion-beetle larvae. He shook out half of them and waited for them to burrow into her heat, spitting juice for her to drink when it overfilled his own mouth, then shook out the rest and covered them loosely with the compress. He was beginning to feel light-headed. Never mind. A Sheulek must be above the distractions of his flesh. Most distractions.

He sat in the cupboard with his woman, chewing and sometimes spitting, and ultimately beginning to sway just a little. Amber’s face seemed to soften, blurring into new lines only to throb itself back into sharp focus. His Soft-Skin. His good woman. His wife. She was so unbelievably ugly.

He started to laugh, choked on a mouthful of juice, swallowed it, then laughed again because that was such a stupid thing to do. But a Sheulek does not make mistakes. Sheul is always with him. So there. He spat some juice into Amber and swallowed another mouthful (deliberately, this time), humming to himself as the colors began to shift around in the air, but humming quietly because the other humans were sleeping and he was so nice. Amber would be proud of him. His ugly, ugly Amber.

“I love your ugly face,” he told her, then bent down to move his mouth parts against hers. Horrible, unsanitary thing to do, and it left her bleeding a little besides. Never mind.

“I love your ugly fur,” he said, taking up many long, damp strands and spilling them through his fingers. It seemed that they kept on spilling for a very, very long time. The phesok was almost out of juice; he swallowed what there was and chewed harder.

Amber shifted below him in the bed, pushing more of the blanket away so that her bare chest was exposed. The sight attracted his staring eye and then his hand. “I love your ugly teats,” he mused, stroking at them. His hand moved up. “And I love your beautiful shoulders.”

Such beautiful shoulders. Smooth and pale as sculpted stone, perfectly rounded, perfectly sloping upwards into her scrawny neck and downwards into her skinny arms. Even the gross distortions on her chest seemed flawlessly balanced beneath those amazing shoulders.

He sucked hard on the pulp in his mouth, held it a moment, then bent reluctantly and spat it into Amber. She mewled a protest, but swallowed it. Her soft mouth, very lightly bleeding, parted for her panting breath. He could see the pink glisten of her tongue. Without warning, sexual urges swept over him, more dizzying than even the phesok in its strength. Meoraq loosened his belt, but his organ would not extrude. The urge died, leaving him with a confused re-discovery of her fevered face and the dressings at her side. It was unforgiveable, even to a Sheulek, for a man to lie with a woman on her sickbed; Sheul, in his wisdom, had prevented it. He spoke a shamed thanks, but already his eye was moving on, becoming fixed on the oddly graceful whorls and ridges that ringed her ear. He sucked on the phesok pulp again, but it had no more juice to give him. He spat it into his palm instead, shook it off into the other room, then closed the cupboard door and lay down beside his woman. He supposed he’d ought to pray, but couldn’t quite focus on what words to say.

Meoraq pulled the blanket up around Amber’s beautiful shoulders, then dropped a careful arm around her chest where it could not hurt her. ‘I am cuddling,’ he thought, pleased with himself. Then the dreams started, dreams of Amber beside him at Xi’Matezh reaching out to hold his hand when the doors hushed open, Amber sitting with him on the rooftop garden at home with the first of his many sons in her arms, Amber holding Nicci’s hand as they waited in a long line of white-garbed people before a great glass-walled shrine. Always it was Amber, sometimes with him and sometimes with her blood-kin, now creased with age and now half-grown, fighting and laughing and weeping and in every way alive. The dreams were glorious and it was a very long time before Meoraq, reluctantly, closed his eyes and slept.

* * *

Amber woke up first to the sounds of people talking none too damn quietly in the main room. Not even really talking, but actually hollering up the stairs to other people outside, just like it wasn’t first thing in the friggin’ morning, which it had to be because Meoraq was still sound asleep beside her.

Her annoyance was the first thing she was really conscious of. The second was a tickling sort of sensation in her side. She started to scratch at it, but was smart enough to stop herself as soon as her fingers touched the bandage. She really did not want to tear herself a brand new gash now that it was finally starting to heal up. And it must be healing up because that’s what things did when they healed, right? They itched? And even though this was more of a tickle, it tickled like six bitches in a bitch-boat, so it better be healing.

Ah, it was great to feel like herself again.

Amber smiled to herself without bothering to open her eyes. She sensed she could open her eyes if she wanted to, however, which was better than she’d felt all night. In fact, the last three days had been like trying to cross quicksand—sinking further and further the more she moved. Yesterday, she’d been absolutely certain she was going to die. The stench coming from her side had been so bad, she was amazed Meoraq could stand to touch her, but he didn’t even mention it.

And maybe he knew something she didn’t, because she felt worlds better this morning. Apart from a headache and an absolutely epic case of morning-mouth, but if that was what it took to wake up free of the fever that had been chasing her down, she’d learn to love it.

But the tickling…

Amber squirmed, as if shifting her weight could actually help. It didn’t.

Out in the main room, Dag was stomping around and bitching about having to go all the way out to the stream for water when it was raining.