The Last Survivors Box Set

by Bobby Adair

  She’d been in Winthrop’s chambers for a while.

  She traced the same path she’d walked with Franklin, glancing at the burned out torches on the street. Several men lurked in the shadows, their breath pluming into the cold night air. It was impossible to tell whether they were looking at her. As she stole past the buildings, she envisioned Winthrop waiting to spring out at her from each one, ready to accuse.

  Soon, she was on the dirt road leading to The House. The familiar path—a path where she’d felt so free with Franklin—felt like a pit full of writhing snakes, a canyon she had to cross. She saw The House in the distance, but this time, instead of dread, she found herself filled with longing.

  Her bedroom suddenly felt much safer than being outside.

  As usual, Mary had left a torch burning at the entrance, a beacon for the girls and the men who escorted them home. Fitzgerald strove for it. She tucked the relic into her boot as she reached the entrance. She glanced behind her. The street was lifeless. Empty. She opened the door and snuck inside, doing her best not to disturb anyone. Mary was a light sleeper, but Fitzgerald had learned to tread softly, avoiding unneeded interaction with the woman she secretly despised. She walked through the main room in the dark, using her memory to guide her.

  When she reached her bedroom door, she nudged it open and stepped inside.

  Her mouth fell open. Mary was waiting, a candle propped on the ground next to her. In her hands was Fitz’s stash of silver.

  Chapter 35: Beck

  Kreuz slowly turned page after page, muttering “remarkable” over and over again.

  Beck said, “I’ve never seen three books in the same place before in this condition.”

  “And the colors,” Kreuz mused. “The images. May The Word be blessed. Images on every page. And the clarity. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “May The Word be blessed,” Beck repeated, as though he were on the pew in one of Winthrop’s services.

  “What I don’t understand,” said Kreuz, after spending a good while looking over the books with a desire that bordered on lust, “is why you brought these here.” He looked Beck in the eye. “Do you want me to feel shame for a collection of books that, until you walked in here today, I thought was the envy of everyone?”

  “No,” said Beck. “I’m ashamed to say, the academy has run short of funds.”

  Kreuz cackled again. “Don’t lie to me, Minister. We’ve been friends too long for that. I know old Blackthorn is as tight as a chicken’s…” Kreuz took a quick glance. “I know old Blackthorn keeps the budget like it’s his own money, but why not just have him give the academy a larger share of the tax?”

  With the best look of disappointment Beck could put on his face, he slowly shook his head. “The council refuses to provide coin for some projects that I feel we absolutely must fund.”

  “For what?” Kreuz asked, puzzlement in his voice.

  In a near whisper, Beck said, “I can’t tell you. I can only say we’re on the verge of unlocking some ancient secrets that might make a better life for us all.”

  “By The Word,” muttered Kreuz. “Are you serious?”

  Beck nodded.

  Kreuz shook his head. “Blackthorn’s cheapness and Winthrop’s blowhard sermons will ruin this city some day. Men can be shortsighted.”

  Beck nodded. “They can. Not all men are wise enough to peek into the future, even when the future is aglow in wisdom of the present day.”

  Nodding, Kreuz said, “I’ll agree with that.” He looked down at the books. “Are you showing these around, then, to those of us who collect, so you can get the best price?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have time,” said Beck. “I brought them to you because I know you have an appreciation for the best. Do you agree these are the best you’ve seen?”

  Kreuz grimaced and grunted as he started to shake his head. “I’ve already given myself away. It never occurred to me that you’d be selling academy books, or I never would have revealed my true feelings about these. You’ve gotten the best of me.”

  “My apologies,” said Beck. “That wasn’t my intention. I don’t intend to gouge you on the price, and I don’t intend to auction these books. I’ve already said time is a factor for me. If I can sell these books right now for a fair price, fair for both of us, I would do so.”

  “Would you?”

  Nodding, Beck said, “Make me an offer.” With a big smile, he added, “An offer that won’t leave your family hungry, and I’ll leave these books with you and I’ll come to you first the next time I come across something very special from the past. Deal?”

  Minutes later, Beck’s strong men were following him back toward the academy, each with hefty bags of coins in hand.

  Chapter 36: Fitzgerald

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Mary asked, her hands shaking as she held up the silver in front of Fitzgerald. “Haven’t I been clear about the rules?”

  Fitzgerald lowered her head. “Yes, ma’am. You have.”

  “Any money you receive for doing God’s work must be turned over to The House.”

  Fitzgerald remained silent. Of course she knew the rules. The others did, too, but it was common practice among the women to hoard the money they earned. In fact, the others probably had more than she did.

  Mary’s lips quivered. “What are you saving for, anyway? What does a girl of The House need with coin?”

  “I—I…” Fitz couldn’t think of an explanation.

  Mary screamed, “Haven’t we provided you with everything you need?”

  Each passing second seemed to enrage the Housemother further. After a few seconds, she rose to her feet and flung the money at Fitzgerald. The coins clattered to the ground, rolling in all directions.

  Fitzgerald stood in place, hands at her sides. Defeated. She pictured the whip the woman had hanging on the wall in her bedroom, promising a lashing. It’d been a while since one of the girls had been caught. Mary’s temper had evidently been building.

  “Don’t just stand there! Pick it up!” Mary shrieked.

  Shaking, Fitzgerald stooped and fumbled with the scattered coins. She crawled across the floor on hands and knees, trying to locate them in the semi-darkness. She repressed the thought of what might come after, trying to immerse herself in the task. Her hope was to look up and find Mary gone.

  But Mary wasn’t leaving. She watched Fitzgerald with a paralyzing stare.

  When Fitzgerald was finished, she scrambled to her feet and stared at The Housemother, awaiting her punishment.

  “Do you really think I was going to let you keep them?”

  “No, ma’am,” Fitzgerald said, her eyes wet with tears.

  “Hand them over. They’ll go toward feeding your sisters.”

  Mary snatched the coins and stuffed them in the pocket of her dress. Fitz tried to quell the nauseous feeling in her stomach. Not only had she been stripped of her earnings, but she’d also been stripped of her plans. She’d never see the money again. And neither would the girls.

  Mary would keep it. She usually did.

  They stood in silence for several seconds, the house pin-drop quiet. Fitzgerald wondered if her housemates were in their bedrooms, snickering. Fitzgerald recalled the relic she’d stolen from Winthrop.

  Thank God she’d had the foresight to hide it in her boot. As fearful as she was about her punishment for stashing the silver, the stolen object would send her to the pyre. She pictured herself hanging from the wooden pole, the flames turning her flesh into liquid. Her fright made her swallow.

  “Do you think you’re better than this?” Mary snarled, pointing at the walls and the neat bedroll on the ground.

  “No, ma’am. I’m not.”

  “You’re nothing but a barren woman. A childless whore.”


  Fitzgerald recoiled as if she’d been struck. For a moment, she considered lunging at the woman, defending her name.

  Instead Fitzgerald remained quiet. She hated herself for it.

  Mary jangled the coins, taunting her. “For two years, I’ve put up with your stubbornness. You refuse to sleep in the bed I’ve given you; you refuse to get along with the other girls. I should toss you out in the street to the drunkards. Better yet, I should have you put outside the wall to feed the demons.”

  Fitzgerald swallowed. Perhaps she hadn’t hidden her disdain for The House as well as she thought. Her anger morphed to fear. She pictured the stories she’d heard about the limbless woman, squealing in fright as the soldiers cast her outside of Brighton’s walls.

  She’d rather be put on the pyre than face that. She needed to fix this. She needed to quell the woman’s anger.

  Fitzgerald kept painfully still. Her room no longer felt like her room; Mary’s presence had tainted it. After a pause, Fitzgerald apologized.

  “I’m sorry to put you through the hardship, ma’am.”

  “You’re lucky the other girls aren’t listening.”

  “I’d be ashamed if they were.”

  In truth, the other girls were probably half-naked, bent by their doors and straining to hear every word.

  After staring at Fitzgerald for some length of time, Mary retrieved the candle and strode past Fitzgerald. The coins jangled in the woman’s pocket, as if to remind her of what she’d lost. Fitzgerald closed her eyes, relieved that the encounter was over. She was back to her original, impoverished self: a place to live, and meals to eat. At least she had Winthrop’s relic.

  That was better than nothing.

  She turned to watch Mary exit. She was prepared to close the door and retire, but when she looked over her shoulder, Mary was still there.

  “Is there something else, ma’am?”

  Mary frowned and cocked her head. She studied Fitzgerald. “Who were you with tonight?”

  “Father Winthrop.”

  “No one else?”

  “No, ma’am. Just the Bishop.”

  “And you came straight home?”

  “I did.”

  Mary pointed to Fitzgerald’s dress, then to her boots. “I don’t believe you. Get undressed. I need to make sure you haven’t stashed anything else.”

  Fitzgerald’s pulse galloped. A few minutes ago, her biggest concern had been the stashed coins, a missed meal, avoiding a beating. But now her life was at stake. If Mary found the relic, if she turned her in…

  Fitzgerald held her breath and unbuttoned her dress, pulling it over her head. Her face grew flush. Modesty meant nothing in The House of Barren Women.

  “The boots, too.”

  Fitzgerald paused. For a second time, she considered lunging at the woman. Taking her chances. But thoughts of her father stopped her. What if he was killed? She recalled Ella Barrow’s friends, spiked for the woman’s indiscretions.

  She couldn’t see her father punished for what she’d done.

  Fighting back tears, Fitzgerald reached down. Then she slid off her boots.

  Chapter 37: Fitzgerald

  They made the walk to Father Winthrop’s in silence. Fitzgerald trailed behind the Housemother, her shoulders slumped, her heart beating out of her chest. After finding the relic, Mary’s entire demeanor had changed. She’d gone silent, reserved. She’d refused to speak or look at Fitzgerald.

  It was as if Fitzgerald were already dead.

  Fitzgerald had tried to cover for herself. She’d said the relic was a gift. But Mary hadn’t believed her. She’d dragged Fitzgerald by the arm, pulled her from The House, and led her in the direction of the square.

  I’ll ask Father Winthrop myself, she’d said.

  The silence was almost worse than the yelling. Fitzgerald had stopped protesting. Once the truth was discovered, no explanation would alter her fate. The truth lingered menacingly in the air, whispering promises of a spiking, a hanging—a woman with her limbs chopped off. Each fate was worse than the last. Her only hope was that Winthrop was still sleeping, that he wouldn’t answer.

  Prolonging her sentence was her last resort.

  The town lay dark. Only a few torches still burned. Fitzgerald heard the distant wail of a drunken man, the screech of a night animal. There’d be few witnesses to her capture, but there’d be a wider audience when she burned. The Elders seldom passed up opportunities to strike fear into the hearts of The People.

  They were on the edge of town when Fitzgerald noticed two shadows coming toward them. The figures spoke quietly in the distance, but muted when they saw Mary and Fitzgerald.

  Fitzgerald recognized the voices. It was Kayla, another girl from the house, along with the merchant with whom she’d left.

  As they got closer, Fitzgerald noticed Kayla was swaying as she walked. Her head was propped up on the man’s shoulder. She’d broken another of Mary’s rules—excessive drink. Alcohol made the girls slovenly, less apt to do their jobs.

  Mary detested it.

  Kayla straightened, trying to cover her behavior. Normally her condition was subject to reprimand, but not tonight. Mary charged past her.

  “Where are you going?” Kayla called out as she passed, unable to control her inebriated tongue.

  Mary answered tersely. “To see Father Winthrop.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  Mary didn’t answer. Mary and Fitzgerald continued on, leaving the couple behind. Fitzgerald looked over her shoulder. She wasn’t fond of Kayla, but at that moment, she’d give anything to stop and talk to the girl.

  Anything to delay her terrifying consequences.

  With each step, Fitzgerald felt like her body was unraveling, leaving pieces behind on the street. Memories of her youth blended with memories of what she’d done. She’d always been fiercely independent. She’d spent more time on the streets than in her father’s home. But her father had been proud of her; despite her situation, he’d always loved her. What would he say about what she’d done? Would he disown her? He’d have to. They’d force him to.

  The knowledge tore her up inside.

  It was bad enough that she’d been born barren. She was his only child. His family. He’d named her after one of the first fifty-seven.

  By stealing, she’d dishonored not only her name, but also the heritage of the three towns. Shame overrode her fear, making her wish she could curl up and disappear.

  But it was too late for that. They were already passing the square, approaching the church and the door she’d entered earlier. The entrance was large and looming. Mary held up the torch, steadying herself as she raised her hand to knock. For the first time all night, the Housemother looked afraid.

  The rap echoed endlessly.

  After a few agonizing moments, the door swung open. Franklin stared at them, his mouth agape.

  “Mary? Fitzgerald? What’s the matter?”

  “We need to see Father Winthrop,” Mary said.

  “He’s asleep in his chambers.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Mary said. She cleared her throat, then held up the relic. “I think he’d want to hear about this.”

  Chapter 38: Beck

  Just as Blackthorn did at his house, Beck conducted business in his dining hall. He lived in the academy building, as did all the scholars, but the extent of his private residence was a large bedchamber. Therefore he used the dining hall shared by all at the academy.

  Beck sat at one end of the hall’s three tables, in the most private corner. Across the table from him sat a Skin-Seller and apparent mercenary, Jeremiah. He was a foul man, with a stink that bespoke day-long binge drinking and a disdain for the bath.

  Beck said, “I am told you will provide services for money.”
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br />   Jeremiah combed his thick fingers through his beard as he thought about his answer. His eyes cut nervously from right to left. “I’m an honest Warden, though I can’t say that for others.”

  “I don’t question your integrity,” Beck said, though his impression of Jeremiah didn’t lead him to trust the man at all.

  “This business with my debts going unpaid is not my fault. I was robbed in my sleep by a brother Warden who—”

  “In your sleep? If you were sleeping, how do you know who robbed you?” Beck furrowed his brow at the obvious inconsistency.

  “I woke as he was taking the last of eleven scalps from my bag.”

  “Eleven?” Beck didn’t know much about the Wardens’ business, but he knew enough to recognize exaggeration.

  “It may have been fewer.” Jeremiah looked away. “I lost count as I was putting them in. This sheep turd of a Warden, Bray, he should take responsibility for my debts. Blackthorn should put him to the pyre for his thievery.”

  Reaching the end of his curiosity and shaking his head, Beck said, “This meeting has nothing to do with that.”

  “Why have you brought me here, then?”

  “As I said, I’ve been told you’ll perform certain tasks for decent prices.”

  Jeremiah picked at something in his hair, then pushed a finger down through to the scalp and scratched.

  Beck waited, trying his best to hold his patience.

  Jeremiah drew his finger back out and carefully examined something under the nail. “Who?”

  “Who?” Beck asked.

  “Who told you I’d perform services?”

  “Does it matter?” Beck asked.

  “It could.”