“Are you Manora’s fosterling?” asked Menolly politely.

The expression deepened for a moment, and then the girl erased all expression from her face, drawing her shoulders up with pride. “No, I’m Brekke’s. My name is Mirrim. I used to be in the Southern Weyr.”

She made the statement as if that should make all plain to Menolly. “You mean, in the Southern Continent?”

“Yes,” and Mirrim sounded irritated.

“I didn’t know anyone lived there.” The words were no sooner out of her mouth than Menolly remembered some snippet of information overheard in conversations between Petiron and her father.

“Where have you been all your life?” demanded Mirrim, exasperated.

“In Half-Circle Sea Hold,” Menolly replied meekly because she didn’t wish to offend the girl.

Mirrim stared at her.

“Haven’t you ever heard of it?” It was Menolly’s turn to be condescending. “We have the biggest dock cavern on Pern.” Mirrim caught her eye, and then both girls began to laugh, the moment in which their friendship began.

“Look, let me help you to the necessary, you must be bursting…” and Mirrim briskly threw back the sleeping fur. “You just lean on me.”

Menolly had to because her feet were incredibly sore, even with Mirrim supporting most of her weight. Fortunately the necessary was no more than a few steps beyond the sleeping cubicle. By the time Menolly crawled back into her bed, she was shaking all over.

“Stay on your stomach, Menolly; it’ll be easier to change your bandages,” Mirrim said. “I haven’t had to do many feet, it’s true; but if you don’t have to see what’s going on, that makes it easier. Everyone at Southern said my hands are gentle, and I’ll drown your feet in numbweed. Or would you want some more fellis juice? Manora said you could.”

Menolly shook her head.

“Brekke…” and here Mirrim’s voice faltered briefly, “Brekke taught me how to change sticky bandages because I…Oh, dearie me, your feet look just like raw meat. Ooops, that’s not the right thing to say, but they do. They will be all right, Manora said,” and there was such confidence in that statement that Menolly pre ferred to believe it, too. “Now Threadscore…that’s nasty. You’ve just lost all the skin on your feet, that’s all, but I expect you feel that’s quite enough. Sorry. Caught you there. Anyway, you’ll not wen have scars once the new skin grows, and it’s really amazing how quickly skin does grow. Or so I’ve observed. Now Threadscore, that’s nasty for healing. Never quite fades. Lucky for you T’gran’s Branth spotted you running. Dragons are very longsighted, you know. There, now, this should help…”

Menolly gasped involuntarily as Mirrim slathered cool numbweed on her right foot. She’d been biting her lips against the pain while Mirrim, with very gentle hands indeed, had removed the blood-caked bandages but the relief from pain was almost a shock. If she’d only lost the skin from her feet, why did they hurt so much more than her hand had?

“Now, we’ve only the left foot to go. The numbweed does help, doesn’t it? Did you ever have to boil it?” Mirrim asked with a groan and, as usual, didn’t wait for an answer. “For three days I just grit my teeth and close my nose and firmly remind myself that it would be so much worse if we didn’t have numbweed. I suppose that’s the bad with the good Manora’s always saying we have to have. But you’ll be relieved to know that there’s no sign of infection…”

“Infection?” Menolly jerked herself up on her elbows, craning her head about.

“Will you keep still?” Mirrim glared so authoritatively that Menolly forced herself to relax. All she could see of her feet were salvesmeared heels. “And you’re very, very lucky there isn’t any infection. After all, you’d been running shoeless over sand, dirt and goodness knows what. It took us forever to wash the grit off.” Minim made a sympathetic sound. “Just as well we’d dosed you good.”

“You’re sure there’s no infection this time?”

“This time? You haven’t done this before, have you?” Mirrim’s voice was shocked.

“No, not my feet. My hand,” and Menolly turned on her side, holding out her scarred hand. She was considerably gratified by the concerned pity in Mirrim’s face as she examined the wound.

“However did you do that?”

“I was gutting packtail, and the knife slipped.”

“You were lucky to miss the tendons.”

“Miss?”

“Well, you are using those fingers. A bit drawn that scar, though.” Mirrim clucked her tongue with professional dismay. “Don’t think much of your Hold’s nursing if that’s any sample.”

“Packtail slime is difficult, as bad as Threadscore in its own way,” Menolly muttered, perversely defending her Hold.

“Be that as it may,” and Mirrim gave the foot bandage a final twitch, “we’ll see you don’t have any such trouble with your feet. Now, I’ll bring you something to eat. You must be starved…”

Now that the worst of the dressing was over and the numbweed had deadened the pain in her feet, Menolly was definitely aware of the emptiness in her stomach.

“So I’ll be right back, Menolly, and if you need anything after that, just shout for Sanra. She’s below on the Floor, minding the little ones, and she knows she’s to listen for you.”

As Menolly worked her way through the generous meal Mirrim brought, she reflected on some harsh truths. Definitely Mavi had given her the distinct impression that she’d never be able to use her hand again. Yet Mavi was too skilled a healer not to have known that the knife had missed the finger tendons. She had deliberately let the hand heal with drawn flesh. It was painfully clear to Menolly that Mavi, as well as Yanus, had not wanted her to be able to play again.

Grimly Menolly vowed that she’d never, never return to Half-Circle. Her reflections made her doubt Manora’s assurance that she could stay at Benden Weyr. No matter, she could run away again. Run she could, and live holdless. And that’s what she’d do. Why, she’d run across all Pern…And why not? Menolly became pleased with the notion. Indeed, there was nothing to stop her running right to the Masterharperhall in Fort Hold. Maybe Petiron had sent her songs to Masterharper Robinton. Maybe they were more than just twiddles. Maybe…but there was no maybe about returning to Half-Circle Hold! That she would not do.

The issue did not arise over the next few days while her feet itched—Mirrim said that was a good sign of healing—and she found herself beginning to fret with impatience at her disability.

She also worried about her fire lizards now she wasn’t able to forage for them. But the first evening when Beauty reappeared, her little eyes darting about the chamber to be sure Menolly was alone, there was nothing of hunger in her manner. She daintily accepted the morsels that Menolly had carefully saved from her supper. Rocky and Diver appeared just as she was drifting off to sleep. However, they promptly curled themselves up to sleep against the small of her back, which they wouldn’t have done if they’d been hungry.

They were gone the next morning, but Beauty lingered, stroking her head against Menolly’s cheek until she heard footsteps in the corridor. Menolly shooed her away, telling her to stay with the others.

“I know it’s boring to stay abed,” Mirrim agreed the third morning with a weary sigh that told Menolly Mirrim would gladly have swapped places, “but it’s kept you out of Lessa’s way. Since the…well,” and Mirrim censored what she’d been about to say. “With Ramoth broody over those eggs, we’re all treading hot sands until they Hatch, so it’s better you’re here.”

“There must be something I can do, now that I’m better. I’m good with my hands…” and then Menolly, too, halted uncertainly.

“You could help Sanra with the little ones if you would. Can you tell any stories?”

“Yes, I…” and Menolly all but blurted out what she’d done at the Sea Hold, “…can at least keep them amused.”