They stood back to back in the kitchen, Sophie scowling at an array of spices in tiny jars with twee labels, Howl with his blouse sleeves rolled carefully up to the elbows, chopping carrots.
"...and then," Howl said, waving the knife for dramatic emphasis, "Juliet wakes up, finds her lover bleeding out at her feet, and kills herself."
He paused, the sound of the knife against the wood punctuating the seconds.
"Go on," Sophie said, her hand lingering over a bottle labeled with the unfamiliar word "masala".
"That's it." Howl scraped the carrot bits into the pan and gave them a shake.
"They both die?"
Howl reached for an onion, which he peeled with a flourish. "Well, yes. That's part of the reason the story is so famous."
Sophie snorted. "Even so, I'm not sure I'd like you to keep quoting it at me." She shook her head. "The things that pass for romance in Wales."
She had just taken the top off of an unlabeled jar to cautiously smell the contents when Howl yelped behind her. The knife clattered to the floor.
"Darling, really, please don't throw -- " she started, turning around with a 'please, not this' expression already primed, but Howl's face -- far too pale -- stopped her. "What did you do?"
He held his hand away from himself, as if he could pass the burden off to her. Blood ran down his wrist, perilously close to the cuffs of his white sleeve. Sophie's stomach turned as she registered the red gash across his thumb.
"Damn onions," he said, then slumped heavily against the counter.
"Oh, don't be dramatic," Sophie chided. Even so, she reached to steady him. It had been a long time since anything more dangerous than a nasty cold had crossed the Castle's threshold, after all -- maybe he really was going all wobbly at a little cut.
Her arm on his elbow, they slid together until they were sitting on the floor, backs to the cabinet. A gentle rain of chopped onions pattered on Sophie's head and Howl's shoulder. He didn't seem to notice. He also didn't seem to notice that the blood was now dripping onto the floor, pooling between his feet where he sat.
"Howl?" Sophie said, reaching up to brush her hand against her husband's face. His skin was clammy, and as she pulled her hand back his bangs clung awkwardly to his forehead. "You actually aren't well, are you?"
Howl deferred an actual response in favor of taking a shaky breath.
"Let me see your hand," Sophie said, reaching for a hand towel to protect her skirts from the blood. Her stomach flipped as she saw the gash across his thumb. She steeled herself and looked closer. Sophie saw bone, then immediately wished she hadn't. No wonder he was so shaken. If she'd nearly cut her own finger off, she'd probably also be on the floor.
She wrapped the towel around his hand and planted a soft kiss against his clammy cheek. "Well, at least it's still attached," she said. "Don't worry, it'll fix up just fine. Let's get it washed off."
Howl tipped his head back against the cabinet behind him and stared at the ceiling. "Let's wait a minute, actually," he said.
His neck was so nice, thought Sophie, and leaned her own head back. Against the window, far away, rain fell.
"Will you hand me a glass of water?" Howl finally said, picking his head back up with a groan.
"Now you're just being dramatic," Sophie said, but she brought him the water anyway.
"Wait until I pass out and then see how you feel," Howl said, then downed the glass. She took his good hand and pulled him to his feet.
"What happened?" Sophie asked, gingerly unwrapping the towel. He stared out the window while she poured cool water over his hand.
"Well, Sophie, it's one thing if you give your heart to a fire demon or get knocked in the ribs during a rugby match, but apparently it's another thing entirely, almost cutting off one's finger in one's own kitchen."
"You didn't almost cut it off," Sophie said, mostly because she didn't enjoy imagining that particular situation.
"Hmm," Howl said. This was his new way of saying that he disagreed with her, but wanted her to believe he was taking what she'd just said into consideration.
"I have lost a perfectly good towel, though."
"Shame."
Sophie wiped her hands along her skirt. "Why don't you sit. I'll get the needle and thread, unless you don't think you can make it to the chair without fainting?"
He smiled. "I'll do my best. Oh -- " he added, and she paused with one foot in the bathroom " -- bring the green bottle. Third from the left. Or fourth, maybe. Definitely green."
"Third, maybe fourth, definitely green," Sophie echoed in a mutter as she collected an armful of supplies.
When she returned, she pulled up a footstool. Howl grabbed the bottle from her, flipped off the cap, and before she could ask any questions, chugged it.
"Do I want to know what was in that?"
He leaned back, stretched and sighed, holding his injured hand out to her. "I'm not going to let my wife sew me up like a torn jacket in my right mind," he said, the words already fuzzy at the edges. Sophie looked up sharply. Howl rolled his head over to her and smiled. "You're cute when you're concentrating," he slurred.
Sophie rolled her eyes and tried to focus on her needle. "That was quick."
Howl propped his head on his opposite fist and stared blankly into the kitchen. He only flinched a bit as Sophie brought the needle through the sides of the wound with steady determination. "Juliet's no good," he announced.
"No?" said Sophie.
"Too old."
"I thought she was sixteen?"
Howl frowned. "Not old. Archaic. Boring. Wrong kind of drama."
Sophie was finishing off her last stitch now. "Wrong kind of drama, hmm?" She reached for a bandage and began wrapping it around the cleanly-sewn cut. "Let me guess: you're good at the right kind of drama?"
She started when he planted a kiss on her head. "No," he said. "You're the one with the drama. I'm the one with the looks."
Sophie pushed his injured hand gently out of the way and pulled herself into the chair, sitting across his lap. The arms of the chair dug into her back and threatened to cut off the circulation in her legs, but she didn't care. "I don't think that's true," she said, and kissed him on the mouth. "But since you're rather loopy at the moment, I'm willing to let it slide."