skygiants

Mary had insisted on not having a doctor. You can’t trust them, she’d said. Look what happened to Colin.

They’d sent for the doctor now, all right, but he was all the way down in the village, and it was the middle of the night. He couldn’t be expected for another hour.

“He probably wouldn’t have been of much use anyways,” Mary mutters.

Dickon says nothing.

Mary fixes him with her gaze. “Now you are not going to be stupid about this,” she tells him, crossly. “I am counting on you to be sensible. Be angry with me if you like, I suppose I deserve it a little -” this said grudgingly; Mary’s always hated to be wrong – “but be sensible at least.”

She stops; takes a deep breath.

“It’s Colin I’m worried about, really. You’ll do fine,” she says. It’s not a statement so much as a command. “You will. I can trust you.”

There’s a long, rather anxious pause, as she waits for an answer.

Finally, low: “Aye, Mary.”

“Good,” Mary says - the loudest thing she’s said yet. The baby in Dickon’s arms stirs at the noise. In a second she’ll be awake again, and hungry.

“Mary,” Dickon says, suddenly, but he doesn’t continue, because Mary’s dead.

JezMirplznottokillme.

And. Uh. If you really feel the urge, just add this sentence on to the end!

The Reaver baby mumbles in her sleep, and continues chewing on the last rubbery piece of Mary's intestines.