"How much longer do you have down there?" his brother asked. "If I need to break you out, we can both retreat to the Vault. There's enough food stored down there to keep us going several months, and by then we can find out what to do next."
"Just seven more days," said Clave. "It's uncomfortable, but I'll manage. Go on, refill the cups. That's what matters."
"I will. But first, wait here. I'll be right back."
His brother's footsteps retreated above into the kitchen, then returned a minute later.
"Food," whispered his brother, and he dropped a small package down through the cracks in the grate. "And fresh water. I would have brought it sooner had I known that you were locked away here. Oh, but I pray it is not too late. For us both, Brother, for us both."
Then he was gone, leaving Clave alone in the darkness. Seven more days, thought Clave. I can make it seven more days, now that he is completing our duty.
And on the fourteenth day, there was no tremor.
Chapter 10: Merrill
Merrill had never left the city of Consuo. It's not that she hadn't wanted to, there had been countless days when she was younger that she had sat atop the rooftop she once called home and wondered what might exist beyond the city walls. She'd often looked out into the horizon, a mere child, wonder combining with the fear of change. For even at that young age, she knew she would not survive on the roads for long.
But much had changed since then. By no means was she still poor—merchants knew her name, many merchants, and the best merchants. For Merrill was a gardener, one of the few that could successfully raise Ember’s Core. When harvested correctly, the profits of a small patch could feed her for weeks.
She had not always been a gardener, of course. Rather Merrill's earliest memories were her wandering the streets from her rooftop, searching for lost coins or breadcrumbs among the cracks in stones. Back then, she'd barely found enough sustenance to survive, scrounging up bits to maintain a slim layer of muscle atop her bones and prevent the tips of her ribs from poking through skin. Merrill had not owned shoes, nor did she own any clothes newer than those that the families nearby discarded after the change in seasons, when the holes rendered them unwearable. Nor did she have any possessions, minus a small silver chain around her neck, older than her memories, which she hid in daylight lest it be stolen.
Back then, merchants had shielded their carts as she walked past, shooing with their hands as she glimpsed at their wares.
"Born in the gutter," said one when she was six. "To die in the gutter. Sooner rather than later. I knew your mother too, the whore. You'd have better luck trying that than begging, girl. If the successes of hers are any measure of yourself, you'll be off the streets in a week."
At the time, Merrill had not understood his words. She could not remember her own mother. Rather Sue, the cobbler down the street, had left milk and bits of beef out twice a week when she was too young to fend for herself. Sue had left it for the cats, but in the dead of night, and with Sue's old age, there was little distinction to be made between the mangy hair of an undersized girl and fur of a street cat, except the cat likely was cleaner.
Then there were the Keepers, who Merrill had learned to avoid after holding her hands to one in hopes of charity.
"Are you looking for a gift, child?" The Keeper had asked, her smile white from high above, matching the white stone lock on her chest. Merritt had tried to mimic that smile, knowing that the woman was far more beautiful than she could ever hope to be, her eyes filled with wonder.
"Then take this gift," said the woman, reaching for her belt and removing a small pouch. "The gift of mercy. For we all need mercy, child."
Merrill had scampered away with the Keeper’s offering, back up to the rooftop, hiding it so no one else could pry into it. There, she had opened the sack, removing a small bundle of dried fruit inside. Merrill had turned her nose at the offering. The variety was orange, which many of the other street children craved, but Merrill could no longer stomach after breaking into a vendor’s stand and eating enough of them to puke. She shared some with the street cat, Dodgy, that also occupied her roof, then saved the rest for later. Surely, when she woke hungry in the middle of the night, she would finish the rest.
But minutes after Dodgy finished the fruit, his mouth frothed, and he fell yowling to the ground. Not catching himself on all fours as usual, but twitching, spasming until he lay still. Merrill had buried the rest of the oranges with his body, and from then on, kept a wide berth from any with the Keeper’s robes.
When she was ten, the winter nearly ended Merrill's career as a beggar. That was the winter when it had snowed for the first time in Merrill's life, and she'd danced in the streets, watching in wonder as the white fluff tumbled to the ground. Like the other children she had played in it, forming snowballs with her palms and angels on the ground. But unlike the other children, when the sun set, she had not rushed home to a warm bed and hot stew, nor to the arms of a loving mother.
No, Merrill had shivered under the shelter of a horse carriage, soaking wet, her thin rags letting the wind cut into her like knives. She’d sobbed under the cart, the stones she usually climbed to her roof too slick with ice for her to find purchase, her tears freezing to her face before they had a chance to fall to the ground, her fingers turning purple and stiff and clutching her only possession, a silver chain, as if it might keep her alive. And deep inside, even at ten, Merrill knew she would die before the sun rose.
Hope fled her then, just as the carriage above her began to move.
She had not noticed the change in lighting, nor the whinnying of horses, nor the hands that reached down to her from above, pulling her from the snow. Nor had she noticed the warmth returning to her bones, the carriage bumping along the cobblestones, and her head lolling to the side in sleep.
When Merrill awoke, she was in a bed.
The feeling was strange to her, more alien than comfortable, for in her entire memory never had she laid upon a mattress of anything but straw, and those were on the nights that she was lucky enough to sneak into a stable.
But this was no stable. The pillows were stuffed, and too many for her to count, though that number was not spectacularly high. The sheets were dyed, and more surprising to her, unstained. So tightly were they wrapped around her that she could barely move, and panic swept through her as she took stock of her surroundings.
There was a dresser in the left most corner of the room, painted to match the walls, with flowers that crawled up its surface. Ahead was a door, locked, with looping writing spelling a word she could not read above in pink letters. A window was to her right, frosted over, and a small lamp burning underneath.
She was not dead, she reasoned. She had heard talk of the afterlife from the Keepers, and her heart rate sped up as she remembered the description of the hells. And it picked up even more when she remembered the promises of heavens, for surely a place in which the Keepers would find solace would outcast her, and would be worse than her life on earth.
Squirming, she managed to free an arm of the sheets, then two arms, then her torso as they relinquished their hold on her. Only her ankles were left when the door opened, and she froze, her eyes darting toward the window.
A man entered with a plate shaking in his wrinkled hands, his eyes falling upon her halfway to her escape. He smiled, the streaks of grey in his beard twitching as he spoke, his voice low.
"Surely, you don't intend to leave without breakfast?"
Merrill paused, still partially caught between the covers, and prepared to lunge toward the window before the smell hit her.
There were eggs—not the runny, broken shells she foraged from the trash, but cooked full eggs that took up nearly half the plate. And beside them was bacon, entire strips of it, laid atop toast that neither had mold nor dirt upon it. Her mouth watered, and she studied the man's face, her stomach screaming at her to stay while her mind screamed at her to leave.
The man smiled, and she winced. Sh
e knew smiles from the Keepers, and from the homeless men that would call out to her after dark, or the merchants that tried to coax her forward so they could grab her wrists and drag her away for stealing. But his smile looked different. It came from his eyes, and neither was it happy nor manipulative.
So she pulled her foot free, and sat upon the bed. And the man brought her food.
"There is a fork on that plate,” he said, but Merrill ignored him, scooping eggs by the fistful into her mouth. Never before had she had food that was hot and good and clean. Typically, it was lucky to receive any one of those, a holiday to receive two of them, and unimaginable to have all three.
Thirty seconds passed before her last swallow, the entire piece of toast combined with two bacon strips and egg crumbs, so large that she nearly choked.
"You do realize," said the man as she gulped down water, "that that was intended for both of us. But no matter, there's more."
"More?" she croaked, looking upward at him.
"Indeed. But that's enough for you, miss, else you'll be sick."
At those words her eyes returned to the window, and the door. With the food consumed, staying there was no longer appealing. Her muscles tensed as she debated which way to run, quickly settling on the door, since the clasp on the window looked too high for her to operate.
"It's a good thing, then," said the man right before she jumped, "that I did prepare dessert. Surely you want some? It's downstairs."
Her muscles relaxed, and she nodded, knowing that word only by association. The word that had been coveted by the other children of the streets that had families. A word she had never tried out for herself, for if she were having dessert, it would be spoiled, and for dinner rather than after it.
Besides, dessert was downstairs, which would surely be on her escape route.
But despite her best efforts, the man held Merrill’s hand as they descended the stairs, her thin legs wobbling on the steps, and they entered a jungle.
In the city, plants were scarce. There was the occasional tree, or flower patch, or herb garden hanging outside of a window. Or there might be weeds sneaking up between cracking cobblestones, or vines clinging for life against the sides of buildings. But they were simply part of the background, not primary objects of Merrill’s concern.
This house was different.
Hundreds of plants were rooted in soil where the floor should be, their leaves reaching up toward a skylight far above. Each bore different flowers, fruits, and leaves—the sheer diversity of the species dazzled Merrill as she gaped, wondering where the wild receded and the walls began again. Birdsong emanated from some of the higher branches, where nests and perches provided living space for the few that had preferred to stay in the courtyard as opposed to fleeing for the winter.
"What is this place?" she asked as the old man walked between the vegetation.
"A garden," the man answered. "The largest indoor one in the city—the most important too. And here, for your dessert," he said, and he pulled off a handful of small berries from a nearby bush, handing them to her. They were sweet- unlike the other fruits she had tasted, which were typically tart and bitter, and often half rotten. And they were nothing at all like dried oranges.
"You made this all yourself then?" she asked, eyes wide as she chewed.
The old man chuckled, and spoke. “The plants grow themselves. All they need is a bit of sunlight, a bit of water, and some nutrition. Then, of course, a bit of a gardener’s touch. But as long as you have the right seed," he said, holding up one of the berries. "Well, if you have the right seed, that's all that matters. The rest are details."
Merrill held her chain as she followed him around the garden, laughing as a group of butterflies fluttered in front of them and stopping at a small fountain in the center.
"It is a beautiful garden,” she said, as he fed her more berries.
"It is indeed," he answered, "But it's a shame that I have grown so old. My muscles are so weary, and my bones creak. I fear I cannot care for it by myself. Barely can I lift the water bucket, or shovel the soil, or bend down to tend the weeds."
He frowned, and looked upward, back to where she had slept.
"If only there was someone who could help me. If there were, she'd surely have breakfast each morning, and lunch each afternoon, and dinner each night. With desserts in between and a bed to sleep on at night."
"I could do it!" exclaimed Merrill, tugging at his hand, her fear forgotten in the wonder of the garden. "I could do all those things!"
"I don't know," said the man, tapping his chin. "It would be a decent amount of work, and only the least lazy of helpers could do it."
"I promise I can do it! I'm not lazy."
"And on top of that, you'd have to be willing to learn to read, and to write, and do math. It will not be easy—I don't want to give you something too difficult."
Merrill begged and pleaded until the old man finally gave in, hiding the upward twitch on the side of his mouth.
So even as it continued to snow outside, and the imprint of her body was only now starting to fade from the night before, Merrill had found herself a new home.
Chapter 11: Merrill
In the months that followed, Merrill's ribs no longer showed under her garments, nor did her arms appear to be made of bone and tendon alone. Instead, she began to take up the correct shape for a girl of ten, and while she still consumed food faster than was typical for a child of that age, she no longer looked to the dumpsters when passing for spare bits of bread.
Her old clothes had been replaced the second day at Fel's place, switched out with garments that, though they were a few years out of style, were otherwise just as good as any other. The clothes were accompanied by a knotted cord of rope she wore around her neck, a replica of the golden cord he wore about his.
“As gardeners, advancement means little to us,” he said, touching the decorated cord. “So I choose to celebrate my low rank rather than renounce it. After all, if I did advance, there would be many plants that would no longer grow correctly for me. No, it’s best we remain neutral.”
Each day she awoke early, roused at dawn by the old man, a pen and parchment in his hand.
"My wrists," he said, sitting her down at the kitchen table. "They ail me so. I fear I will not be able to write much longer. And if I cannot write, I cannot sell my fruit and herbs and essences to the merchants. Nor can I buy seeds! So you must do the writing for me."
“But I don't know how!" Merrill protested, trying to make sense of the symbols already on the parchment.
"Then you shall learn," he answered, and he taught her the paths the pen must follow for numbers. After a few weeks, he taught her letters, and he instructed her to fetch the orders from their mail each morning and read them aloud to him while he prepared breakfast.
The words came slow and stuttering, and often mispronounced, but the old man corrected her, showing her each time the right way, and never letting her take shortcuts in learning.
"We've received six orders for nistlante herbs," he said to her one day, six months after she had started work. "Can you remind me what those are for?"
"Fevers!" she answered promptly. "You gave some to me just last week. Best dried, and mixed in tea. They’re a low level frost plant, so the tea must be cold."
"Good, good, you're learning. So, we have six orders, and unfortunately only two plants. How many seeds should I plant to be sure I will have enough to cover those orders next season?"
Merrill's face scrunched as she thought, then answered.
"Five!"
"Five?"
"Five. Because each nistlante will not reach full size by next season, and you'll need an extra to make up for it."
"You are clever," praised Fel. "Now, let’s pretend the merchants want more of the herb. They’re desperate this year, it turns out. If I can plant six seeds per plot of soil, and I have four plots, how many plants will I have?"
So it continued each week, the old man q
uizzing Merrill, and teaching her, and instructing her with duties around the house that grew more and more arduous as he grew weaker.
"Today," he announced, a year in, "you will water the vines that grow along the walls of the garden. Bear in mind that you cannot water these at the base. No, they must be watered below each of their flowers, as they will only produce the correct seeds with this technique. For they are sparkvines, known for their seeds that can start fires, though few know the technique that keeps their burning roots alive. Remember this, Merrill, remember the gardening secrets, and there will be none that can make life spring forth such as you. And there will be none that can match your prices with the merchants."
Merrill had done as he said, taking care to work her way around the garden on a ladder, giving just the right amount of water to each of the vines in just the right spot.
After two years of work, Merrill was hardly recognizable as the beggar that had once wandered the streets. The room that she slept in was now hers firmly in her mind, and the old man was hers, and the garden was hers.
And one night, just before she went to bed, she read the letters above the doorway in her room, sounding them out carefully, and making a note to ask the old man at breakfast.
"Who was Abigail?" she asked over their bacon and toast.
Fel coughed over his tea, straightening himself in recovery before answering.
"Wherever did you find that name?"
"In my bedroom, just above the door."
"Ah, yes. I suppose that was left there. Don't worry about that, miss. I seem to have forgotten it, and we will have this discussion another day, when you are older."
Merrill protested, but Fel put her to work, watering the vines again, counting seeds, and drying herbs for the market. For some time she forgot about the name, though it always lingered in the back of her head, occasionally surfacing with a passing thought that quickly fell beneath the currents of her mind. The room grew to be more and more Merrill’s, with her own paintings from berry pigmentations on the walls and her silver chain with flowers woven into hanging from the door.
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