Chapter Text
"Mayn likht (My light), what happened?!"
Sam's hands shoot up before Sara is halfway through the sentence, weaseling away from her touch along with the rest of his body.
"Yes, I got it cleaned up," he grits out, "No, the man didn't stab me, and yes, I'm going to get it bandaged."
Sara's tongue is itching to retort at the first trace of hostility in Sam's voice; she bites down instead, taking in her son's state: on the one hand, torn, muddied clothes and the alarming red stain over his ribs; on the other: washed-clean skin sitting against the dirty fabric, jaw set, and enough presence of mind to put the torch out and away before barging into the house.
Her sweet, wonderful baby boy is damn lucky his mother has her priorities straight. She clenches her teeth and beelines for Sam's flank, tuning out the weak whine of "Mame…" that sounds so much like the tender plea of a child compared to his earlier outburst.
She checks Sam's head, then – just in case he actually hit it.
No such sign.
With her most pressing concerns sorted, she gestures for Sam to close the front door; she checks over the stew that's been waiting over the hearth long past its prime, takes a long, deep breath as she gives it a single, pot-wide stir…
… and finally comes back to the wound over Sam's ribs. "This was cleaned, then?"
"Yes. Vinegar."
Sam lets her palm around, wincing when her fingers pull at the skin just above the reddened line – but she has to admit, it looks like nothing more than a long, surface-level scratch. "We should treat it before bandaging. I'll go get the honey."
Sam gets a look at that—ah, not just a look. That's his mulling over something face.
Sara rests a hand on her hip as if to say 'Go on, then'. She's stuck like that midway between facing him and turning away, but it's not like she can back down now.
"Why did you say that?" Sam budges, with the bewildered frown of someone who just watched his mother grow a second head.
For a moment, both of them stand frozen in time, wearing equally puzzled faces for what Sara can only assume are completely different reasons.
But then, Sam averts his eyes and cards self-conscious fingers through his hair. "’Just a nick," he mutters. "’Doesn't need treating."
"If it's 'just a nick'," she enunciates, just in case Sam did hit his head after all, "then just a pinch of the good stuff is enough, no? Now stop worrying, and I'll bandage you up."
Sam acquiesces, but he's still hugging his middle despondently as Sara leaves for the pantry. "Did you know anything about this?" he calls.
Sara likes to think of herself as perceptive, but it bears saying: if this were any other person, by this point she’d be utterly lost. As it stands, however, Sam came out of her and was lovingly reared for the two decades that followed. "This is something to do with your zeyde (grandfather)," she guesses, "isn't it?"
She could swear on her own mame's soul, the air in the house thickens.
"In a way," comes Sam's admission, after too long a beat.
Once she's back in the hall, she covers her son's wound in honey as promised and leaves the rest of the bandaging to him, in hope he will stop squirming.
It does seem to help, somewhat. Sam steadies with the concentration of wrapping the bandages around his midriff and pinning them in place. His eyes track his own fingers with an odd fascination as they trace over the gauze. "It's… a long story," he sighs.
Sara picks the ladle back up and resumes stirring, figuring it's just going to be the two of them taking supper. She hears the telltale creaking of wood behind her, then, where Sam must've leant his backside against the table.
"I was out with Moishe and Yaakov when we hear fighting in the alley across from the butcher's…"
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"… but he wasn't lying, Zeyde was expecting him. And now, yours truly is supposed to be His Lordship's guard dog."
Sara's eyes follow Sam's restless pacing. "Sounds like you found him at just the right moment, at least."
"I don't know. He claims he's no fighter, but the second bandit was run through and dead before I ever noticed the commotion." He sucks on the inside of his cheek in thought. Then: "Not a bandit. Assassin," he corrects. "If Zeyde thinks harboring him is good strategy, it probably is. But why couldn't he tell me sooner?"
"Of course, so you could start sulking in advance!"
Sam flashes her an ice-cold glare. "I would've—made sure to… or—"
"I know, bruchale (little blessing)…" The truth is, she loves her tate (dad) and Tate loves Sam, in his own way. But with some things, waiting for them to change is like sitting in the river and waiting for laundry to soap itself up. "To go with your stew?" she offers, raising a mug of her world-renowned herbal tea in front of the place where Sam would be seated by now, on any other night. ("World-renowned", naturally, meaning that her son likes it very much and Tate occasionally praises it.) Sam must've been able to smell the mixture of fresh herbs all the while she was brewing it, but he blinks at the tea as if he's only just noticed its existence.
Sara sets it down anyway and crosses her arms with new resolve. "Well, so now we have one of Europe's elite hidden away in your basement. What is His Lordship like, then?"
Sam laughs. Full-body, belly-jutting-out laughter.
It's a bitter thing.
"Perfectly polite," he sneers.
When she cants her head in question, Sam tilts up his chin and hooks a self-important hand to his belt. "Thank you for your help, Rabbi. I won't forget it."
Sara laughs at the sing-songy primness with which her son over-enunciates in Czech, voice gliding up and down with all the appropriate fuss. Sam exhales all the pomp out with an eye-roll, but Sara catches a real smile softening his features moments later as he watches her continue to snicker.
Animated with sudden glee, he throws an arm around Sara's shoulders and lifts a foot in mimicry of a sprained ankle. "Samuel, is it?" he says in the fussy voice. "Would you help me to my chambers? I'd rather not insult your hospitality by falling to my death down a simple flight of stairs."
Sara laughs harder, head thrown back against Sam's arm. "He said that?"
"I quote directly."
"So he's got words!" she shrugs, seizing the opportunity to squeeze her son's middle in a half-hug. "Funny beats vulgar."
Some of the earlier bitterness seeps back into Sam's voice. "And honest beats both."
Sara releases him with a parting stroke to his back, using her new freedom of movement to procure two bowls and start serving. It occurs to her now, Zeyde may not quite be the reason Sam barged into the house the way he did. Or not the sole one, at least. If the strange man was the one insisting Sam look after his rib wound, fussing over proper care, Sara can only imagine how well that went.
Still, that must count for something, mustn't it? "Who knows, maybe he's just not that bad."
Skepticism narrows Sam's gaze, deepening the fold line just below his eyes.
She knows what he's thinking: she, of all people, should not be so easily fooled by a couple of civilized remarks in a goy’s mouth. If only he knew… For the thousandth time, Sara bites her tongue.
"He's smart enough to know his luck, I'll give him that," Sam retorts. Still, he rushes to grab two spoons as soon as he sees her placing the bowls on the table, the way he always does.
Sara takes in the simple act with a different kind of feeling squeezing her heart. "No, mayn brucha (my blessing). He doesn't know the half of it."
Sam doesn't get any cheerier, but he does lean into her hand when she strokes his cheek.
" … Let's eat, and you tell me how Moishe is?"
She gets a smirk from across the table for her troubles. "Sometimes I get the feeling if I got the sneezes, you could take over the tavern tomorrow."
"I could, too!"
"Moishe is not supposed to tell you all we do. It's not clean business."
"And before I knew that, all was fair and I lived in a castle."
Sam looks away, contorting to keep his mouth flat. "It's dangerous stuff", he tries, severe. "Yaakov almost got got just outside the city, last time."
"I know, son. I'm proud of you." Sara taps his calf under the table once, trying to win his attention back. "I'd just rather know some of what you get into than let my imagination keep me up at night. You don't have to worry about me."
The way Sam’s lips purse at his bowl does a perfect job of spelling out what he isn’t saying.
"Nuh-uh!" Sara protests. "Worrying about you is my job. In fact, if your good sir…" she raises expectant eyebrows at Sam.
"… Liechtenstein," Sam aids. Then, when she keeps waiting: "... John. The Second. … Of."
"There!" she slaps the table in victory. "If that John of Liechtenstein changes tack, you send him upstairs for an earful from Sara of Kuttenberg."
Sam lets a defeated chuckle bubble up. He shakes his head at her antics, but he does finally say his blessings and pick up the spoon.