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inside my head.
    A harsh intake of breath and then a shocked whisper in my ear: “Little Mistress, what have you done?”
    I could not answer. I did not know if I was moving or lying still, or even who was speaking to me. Then one of my arms was lifted up. I whimpered in protest. The sleeve was tugged, and then ripped swiftly away from the wounds. I screamed as fire roared up my arm.
    The darkness won.
    Something was wadded under me in uncomfortable lumps. I stirred, wriggling a little, but I did not have the strength to rearrange myself. I moved one of my arms and cried out when a white-hot pain spiked through it.
    “Shh, Little Mistress.” A soothing, familiar voice.
    “Y-Youta?”
    “How do you feel now?”
    “I am not sure. What happened?”
    “You must tell me that,” he said, and he sounded sad.
    With an immense effort, I forced my eyes open.
    I was lying behind the stove on a tattered bundle of rags that I realized must be Youta’s bed. My arms were thickly bound in soft, grayish-white bandages. A lantern was lit now, and Youta was leaning over me, his back to the light. His face was too shadowed to make out. I was glad. I was remembering now why I was here, what I had done.
    “I didn’t mean to . . .” My voice trailed off.
    “To kill yourself?”
    “No.” But I thought about that sense of relief I had felt the moment I believed I would die, and my denial had no conviction behind it. “I came to you. I came before it was too late.”
    “Yes, I suppose that is something.” He reached across me and I heard clinking and things moving around. “I have made some tea — which you will oblige me by drinking.”
    He handed me a bowl of fragrant green tea and helped me to sit up, offering his shoulder to lean on. He smelled of sweat and charcoal, and old man. His arm behind me was as solid as a tree branch.
    “If you did not mean to end your life, please will you tell me why you cut open your own arms?”
    I sipped the tea, though my arms burned and my fingers shook. It gave me an excuse for silence. I had come here for help, and Youta had helped me. Yet I found I still did not want to speak of it.
    “It . . . was . . . an accident. . . .” The words came out slowly and heavily.
    He refilled my tea bowl. “You trusted me to save your life. Trust me enough to tell me the truth.”
    “I need it,” I whispered, tea slopping over the edges of the bowl.
    Youta steadied my hands.
    “I feel — I feel as if I am mad. I am so angry all the time, and so sad, and it screams inside me and never stops. Cutting is the only thing that eases me.” I met his eyes pleadingly. “I usually only make a little mark — but tonight it was not enough. I did not mean to hurt myself. I swear it.”
    Youta did not react with shock or disgust. He helped me to lift the bowl to my lips again, saying, “I have heard of such things. Your feelings are natural, Little Mistress. It would be insanity if you were not angry and sad. But instead of being angry and sad with the men who hurt your family, it seems that you are angry and sad with yourself, and that is not right.”
    “It is not like that. I am not punishing myself. The cutting makes me feel
better.
”
    “Hurting yourself makes you feel better?”
    I bit my lip. It was no use. He had not seen what I had seen. He had not watched them die. No one else could know how I felt.
    Youta sighed. “You have made yourself very unwell. So much blood lost. And these wounds will leave scars. It will be hard for anyone to miss what has happened to you.”
    I went rigid with horror as I realized the truth of what he said. For a moment I wished that I had simply stayed in my room and bled to death.
    “I can help you,” Youta said, breaking into my spiraling panic.
    “How?” I whispered.
    “I will assist you back to your room, and clean the blood, and take your
yukata
away to be burned. If, when tomorrow comes, you are too weak to leave your bed, you must feign an illness. Young