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Wyck's house smelt of old wood, dust and the unmistakable smell of the sea. After scouring the reverend's office for answers, they still had yet to find. He had suggested the small group relocate there for the night, none of them really wanting to be alone after all that had happened.
The old sailor puttered around the kitchen, making tea, as Patricia and Tom sat down on a tattered-looking couch, neither saying a word, both too rocked by what had happened today to attempt conversation.
The harsh sound of cabinet doors opening and closing made them both flinch; beneath it all, they could hear Wyck muttering to himself.
Patricia had to strain to hear it.
“First the fog… clown…hag…ritual… God, what’s next, what’s next?” He trailed off.
He sounded unnerved, which frightened Patricia. If the only man on the island who seemed at all capable of handling these horrific events was at a loss for what to do, how on earth did they stand a chance?
She fidgeted in her seat, feeling a rising panic. Her large green eyes flickered towards Tom, whose face seemed perpetually frozen in fear after the day he’d had. He met her gaze with wide, frantic eyes and shrugged slightly, shaking his head.
Whether he’d heard Wyck's words as well was unclear, but either way, he was at a loss for what to do.
She looked away and tried to calm her increasingly rapid breathing.
“Keep it together, Patricia.” She muttered under her breath.
Lost in thought, she was startled when Wyck finally reappeared, placing two mugs of steaming tea in front of them. She jumped at the sound, and next to her, she felt Tom do the same.
“Tea, to calm the nerves.” Wyck rasped. “Unless you want something stronger.” He added, pulling out a flask and taking a swig before offering it to Tom.
The mayor grabbed the flask, wiped the mouthpiece with the sleeve of his jacket, as if to clean it, then took a large swig. “Thanks.” He muttered.
The quiver in his voice seemed to have faded some, and he offered the flask to Patricia.
For a moment, she almost accepted, but memories of her “punch” swirled to the forefront of her mind, and she felt queasy.
“I’ll stick with tea.” She murmured, reaching out for the steaming mug.
“Jesus, Patricia, your hand!” Tom gasped, making the younger woman jump again.
“Oh… right,”
She shakily held out her burned hand to get a good look. Wincing at the pain of the movement as well as the look of the angry burn covering her hand.
She’d somehow forgotten it. At first she’d simply refrained from mentioning it; part of her was desperate to see if either of the men would care or even notice that she was hurt. She knew it was petty and immature and more than a little self-pitying, but after tonight, she was even more desperate to know if anyone gave a shit about her, or if the book was right, maybe she could die tomorrow, and no one would notice.
All thoughts of that had fled when she saw the reverend hanging from the back of the door.
“That needs looking after,” Wyck grunted as he stood and disappeared upstairs, the steps creaking under his weight.
“What happened?” Tom asked, sounding genuinely worried.
Patricia felt tears burn in her eyes, unused to people showing her any kind of concern. She blinked them back and cleared her throat before she spoke.
“I told you, I had to burn the book.” She shrugged, avoiding making eye contact with the man next to her.
“And your hand with it, why didn’t you just…throw it in?” He asked with a hint of amusement.
“I couldn’t let go of it, Tom.” She replied tightly. “Do you really think I didn’t try that first?” She turned to glare at him. “It was stuck, I- I couldn’t let go of it, I had no choice.” She trailed off, looking down as she remembered the horror of it all.
“Fuck, I’m sorry.” He said softly. “I’m sorry…I’m freaked out, and I’m being a dick.”
Patrica pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows, nodding slightly. “Yeah, you are.”
“Does it hurt?” He asked.
Patricia turned to him with a glare. She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.
“Stupid question, got it,” Tom responded, holding up his hands.
The stairs creaked again, and Wyck reappeared with a large, beaten-looking first-aid kit. He opened it with a sigh and rumaged through it, pulling out some bandages and gauze.
“I’ll have to clean it first.” Wyck began gesturing to Patricia's burned hand.
He left once more, retreating into the kitchen, and he returned moments later with a bowl of cool soapy water. He sat in front of the two and held out a weathered hand.
Patricia glanced at the older man’s face, to his hand, to Tom, who gave her a nod as if to say “go ahead.
Reluctantly, she held out her injured hand with a wince.
Wyck was surprisingly gentle as he cleaned the burn; despite that, Patricia still found herself flinching and wincing every so often. When he dabbed the cloth on a particularly sensitive spot, she had to bite her lip to avoid whimpering.
Beside her, she heard a sharp inhale of breath and turned to see Tom wincing as he watched. When he caught her eye, he tried to school his expression with little success.
“Sorry,” he grimaced.
Patricia wanted to snap at him, but before she could, she was torn back to the pain in her throbbing appendage as Wyck began to dry and then bandage her hand.
“Get yourself together, man,” Wyck grunted as he tied off the gaze, giving Patricia’s hand a little pat as he finished. “All done.”
She retracted her hand slowly and laid it across her lap. The whole ordeal left her feeling all fuzzy; she hadn’t realized how starved for human contact she was until now. Just the action of someone bandaging her hand had left her feeling ridiculously emotional, and for a second time she had to blink back treacherous tears.
“Thank you.” She spoke, her voice thick with emotion she hoped the men didn’t notice.
Wyck gave her a nod, handing her the cooling mug of tea that she took with her good hand.
“Drink, you’ll feel better.”
He sat back and took another swig of his flask before regarding Patricia and Tom before him.
“Now.” Wyck rasped. “We’ve got a lot to discuss…”