by Bobby Adair
Fitzgerald clenched her jaw, wishing she had a weapon with which to beat him.
He started to say something, but she silenced him with a raised hand and a hateful scowl. She wanted to punish him, to hurt him, to make him cry as many tears as she and Oliver had shed together.
She came to a decision. As powerless as she felt, Fitz knew she had a power over men they’d not readily admit. She angrily unbuttoned the top of her dress.
“What are you doing?” Franklin whispered.
She pulled her dress open, exposing both of her breasts.
Franklin’s eyes went wide as he stared at them.
She grabbed his hands, shoved them hard against her breasts and spat, “Squeeze them. Feel them. Enjoy them. You better, because this is the last time you’ll ever touch them again.”
She threw his hands off her and resisted the urge to slap him across his face. “You are a brutal pig.” She stepped into the room and slammed the door shut.
Chapter 9: Franklin
Sitting on a pew in the front row of the Sanctuary, Franklin stared at the far end of the bench, the place where Oliver had leaned while being beaten. Franklin turned the memory over and over in his mind, searching for what he could have done differently. There had to be something. He had to have made a mistake somewhere for it all to have turned out so badly.
Now Oliver hated him. He was sure of that. How could he not?
And Fitz. Franklin felt a lump in his throat again. Beautiful, kind Fitz, she’d seen enough of what happened that now she hated him, too.
He wanted to go back to the door of the room he shared with Oliver and beg both Fitz and Oliver to forgive him, but he feared what a second attempt might bring. He feared a commotion in the middle of the night might wake Father Winthrop.
So he stayed and looked at the pews.
Eventually, his eyes grew heavy enough to overcome his anxiety. He fell asleep.
When Franklin opened his eyes, he fully expected to see more of the night’s cold shadows; instead he saw the faintest of morning lights coming in through the windows high up on the Sanctuary walls. He felt a rough, persistent nudge on his arm.
Franklin jerked himself upright in the seat, looking around at an empty Sanctuary, empty except for Oliver standing in front of him, a market basket in his hand.
Franklin looked sheepishly down at his lap. “Are you okay?”
Oliver didn’t answer.
Franklin looked at Oliver again. He asked, “Are you okay?”
Oliver didn’t turn away. He didn’t show any anger. He looked at Franklin with no expression, no words on his lips.
Franklin stared at his lap. “I’m sorry. You know that. I didn’t have a choice.” He raised his eyes back up to Oliver. “You understand that, don’t you?”
Oliver said nothing.
Standing up, Franklin reached over and brushed a wrinkle out of Oliver’s shirt as it hung off his shoulder. The shirt was damp. “You cleaned it?”
Oliver raised the basket.
“I washed it for him,” said Fitz.
Startled, Franklin looked up to see Fitzgerald leaning against the wall, just inside the doorway at the back of the Sanctuary.
Franklin’s mouth fell open as he looked for words that he couldn’t find.
“Oliver took the beating, but he still got out of bed in time to tend to his morning duties,” she said. “Now he needs you to accompany him to the market. Father Winthrop has requests.” She turned and retreated into the hall.
Franklin watched the doorway as though he could will her to come back, to look at him with love in her eyes. He feared he might never see that look again.
Oliver walked away from Franklin, going down the aisle between the pews, headed for the front door. In an emotionless tone, he said, “We have to go.”
Chapter 10: Ella
It had been a cold night in the forest, and none of them had slept well, constantly squirming beneath blankets that were too thin to keep out the chill, always worrying that the sounds in the forest were the demons coming to eat them or soldiers collecting them for the pyre. When the sky gave the first hint that it was changing from spangled indigo to morning gray, Ella, Bray, Melora, and William rose in silent consensus, gathered their things, and started out, following a game trail through an early morning fog.
In most places the trail was muddy. In others, the mud was frozen in ridges squished up from the relatively warm ground by passing animals. At least most of the snow had melted away.
Ella spent a lot of thought on breakfast. But those thoughts always turned to her daughter. After so many days hoping to get to Melora in Davenport, and then in those days after, trekking through the forest on only the thinnest hope that she might be alive, they’d found her. Still just a day after stumbling upon her near that smoldering settler’s house, Ella kept glancing to look at Melora, half expecting her to disappear as her mind gave up on the delusion.
But she was always there.
Ella found herself staring at her daughter, tears pooling in her eyes. The fact that Melora was alive—that they’d found her—was a miracle. Ella had last seen Melora as a toddler. Through the years as she imagined what her daughter might be like, she couldn’t help but remember Melora as she was on the day they parted, a child with two little white flowers in her hand and a smudge of dirt on her face, trying to understand why Aunt Ella was going away. Now Melora was a beautiful young woman with an inexplicable strength that showed through the bruises and stains.
Trying to reconcile that toddler with the resilient girl beside her, Ella couldn’t forget all the years she’d missed in between.
When the forest grew bright enough and the fog grew thin enough that they could see a good distance through the trees, Ella started to talk to Melora, continuing their conversation from the day before. They talked about the Davenport massacre, the death of Melora’s friends, and the settlers who had taken Melora in. Then they fell silent, bound together by grief over the countless dead and their sorrow for the ones they loved. Things Ella wondered if they’d ever be able to talk through.
As their morning hunger set in, Melora traveled with her head down, keeping pace with her mother and sibling. She clung to a sword and a bow she’d taken from the dead soldiers. Her face was streaked with soot and tears, but she trekked without complaint, seeming to immerse herself in the journey to distract her from what she’d been through.
In spite of the awful, tragic things that had happened, Ella felt a sense of rightness, a sense of purpose with the three of them together. The reunion of her family was like a potent drug, filling her with strength she hadn’t had before.
She vowed to hold them, protect them, and keep them together.
If only Frederick and Jean were alive to see us.
They walked out from under the shadows of the trees and into a meadow of tall grasses poking out from the snow, turning gold and brown with the coming of winter. Melora said, “I always knew Frederick and Jean were hiding something.” Her voice wavered. “A few times they started to tell me things, but they always stopped. When I asked for more, they said they’d tell me when I was older.”
“They were good people,” Ella confirmed.
“They sure were.” Melora swallowed.
“I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve told you.”
“You don’t need to explain again.” Melora smiled grimly through her cuts and bruises as she stared at the trees across the meadow.
Ella watched her with concern. “I know you miss your friends.”
Melora sniffed. “I do, but I understand why we had to run away so fast. I understand why we couldn’t bury Rowan. It wouldn’t have been safe.”
Ella hung her head, wishing there were something they could’ve done for Rowan. For Cooley. If only she could a
ssume some of her daughter’s pain. But all they could do now was move forward.
They followed Bray’s lead through the forest, winding up and down several small hills, weaving through trees that looked like they’d been standing forever. Rocks and roots protruded at odd angles from the snow as if they’d fallen from the sky and stuck there.
After awhile, Bray called over his shoulder. “In all this time, I haven’t seen any evidence of the settlers you were staying with, Melora.”
“I bet they’re covering their tracks,” Melora suggested. “Either that, or they had an escape path planned. Roger was intent on getting his children to safety. He knew Rowan couldn’t run. That’s why I wouldn’t leave him.”
“That was a brave thing you did for that boy, pulling him out of the fire like that,” Bray said, bowing his head. “I wish we could’ve done more for him.”
Melora nodded silently.
They walked up a steep, snow-covered hill, their bodies fighting the terrain and gravity. When they’d reached the top, they didn’t halt, and they didn’t slow. Ella noticed William peeking over his shoulder at Melora as if his sister might disappear.
William smiled sheepishly.
“She’s my sister,” William said to Ella as he tested out the word. “Saying it sounds strange.”
“It sounds strange to me, too,” Melora admitted.
“I never thought I’d have one,” he said.
“I didn’t either. Well, a brother, I mean,” Melora said.
William furrowed his brow. “Most of my friends had brothers. One had six. I used to pretend I was the seventh. We played Lord of the Mountain whenever I went to his house.”
Ella laughed. She recalled the family William was talking about. The Millers. They’d joined them for dinner a few times while in Brighton. Would Ella and William ever see the Millers again?
She doubted it.
William ran to catch up to the Warden. Ella looked over at Melora. It’d been difficult discussing William’s condition while William was around.
In a hushed tone, one she was getting used to using when William was far enough ahead, Ella said, “He’s gotten pretty good at tracking while we’ve been out here.”
“He seems so energetic,” Melora noted.
“He always has been,” Ella said.
“I’d think he was perfectly healthy if you hadn’t told me different.”
“We’ve been keeping a close eye on him over the past few days,” Ella reiterated. “He’s had a rough time. I keep hoping things will get better, but they’ve been getting worse.”
“I’ve only just met him…” Melora bit her lip and looked away. “I saw the lump on the back of his neck that you were talking about. It caught on his shirt when he was walking.” Melora turned her eyes down to the forest floor. “Before that, I could almost imagine it was a mistake. What do you think will happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Surely people can live with the disease…” Melora tried. “I’ve heard people discussing it in town.”
“It’s progressing quickly. Someday soon, we might have to make a decision.”
Melora reached over and took Ella’s arm, and in that moment, Ella felt certain that Melora’s concern was genuine.
“I’m sorry this happened,” Melora said. “No one deserves this.”
Ella looked into the distance and bit her lip. “I’m glad you’re with us, Melora.”
“Me, too…” Melora’s voice trailed off.
“I’ll admit it’s difficult knowing what to say to you, after all this time. I’d rehearsed it so many times when I was alone, figuring out the words.”
“I heard stories about you. In some ways, I felt like I’ve always been with you and William in Brighton.” Melora smiled. “I used to imagine what you both looked like when Frederick and Jean spoke about you. Sometimes I thought about running away there to meet you.”
“I thought about Davenport every night.” Ella dabbed her eyes. “I never forgot you. I need you to know that, Melora.”
“I do.”
Ella reached over and pulled her daughter close.
“I don’t blame you, Aunt Ella…I mean…”
“You don’t have to call me Mom if you don’t want to.”
“I want to,” Melora said. “I will. It’ll just take some getting used to.”
Chapter 11: Blackthorn
Not usually one to second-guess himself, General Blackthorn was doing just that as he crossed the square with four of his men following behind. All of Winthrop’s fearful sniveling about hoisting his blubbery butt onto a horse and riding out with the army was starting to wear at Blackthorn’s resolve.
Now, he was wrestling with whether to have Winthrop put on the pyre, leave him in Brighton to be dominated by Tenbrook, or take him along. All choices had their merits and their pitfalls. The only clear drawback in Blackthorn’s mind was having to listen to Winthrop bemoan his predicament from astride his horse while riding along with him and Minister Beck all the way to the Ancient City.
Blackthorn’s time outside the circle wall had always been spent among the brave and the silent, men who never cried or complained, men who rode to victory or death. Those were Blackthorn’s most beloved memories. Those days out on the horse meant something. Those were days of clear purpose, bravery, and glory. Winthrop’s vociferous cowardice promised to taint all those memories.
As Blackthorn approached the temple, he saw Winthrop’s Novices, Franklin and Oliver, sullenly heading off with their shopping basket in the direction of the market.
Women’s work.
Blackthorn liked nothing of the way Winthrop managed his clergy. If Winthrop treated his Novices like women, they’d grow into women, just as weak and useless as Winthrop.
One of the soldiers hurried ahead and opened one of the temple’s giant old doors.
“Wait out here,” Blackthorn told his men as he stepped into the musty Sanctuary. He walked up the center aisle, but saw no one else in the cavernous space.
He’d only been in the Sanctuary a handful of times in his life, always for formal occasions. The whole building made him uncomfortable, from the sound of the echoes, to the odd overcast feel of the light coming in through the small high windows. And the smell was disgusting. It reeked of musty old crones and sheep dung.
Blackthorn spotted two doorways leading into halls at the back corners of the Sanctuary and realized he had no idea where Winthrop kept himself when he wasn’t on the stage, haranguing the peasants with his ancient fictions.
What he did know was that he wasn’t going to wander through the warrens behind the Sanctuary in search of Winthrop.
Damn Winthrop. If he didn’t intend to preside over his pretentious space, he should at least have left one of his womanly Novices inside to accept visitors.
Blackthorn’s anger started to simmer as he reconsidered the purpose of his visit. Perhaps he’d leave and refuse to listen to any more of Winthrop’s whining on the matter of going out with the army.
A noise from one of the halls caught his attention. He looked to the right just in time to see a rapturously beautiful young woman walking into the Sanctuary with a load of linens in her arms.
Blackthorn started to speak, but his words caught in his throat, and his breath froze in his chest.
The girl looked exactly like Emma, his first wife, the only one of the three wives he’d loved.
“I beg your pardon,” the woman said, immediately looking at the floor and turning to go back the way she’d come.
“Wait,” Blackthorn ordered, silently chastising himself for his severe tone of voice.
The woman froze in her steps, still facing away.
Going to great effort to make himself sound kind, he said, “Come here.”
<
br /> The woman turned, fear written on her face.
“Don’t be frightened,” said Blackthorn, wanting only to get a closer look at her. “I mean you no harm.”
The woman walked slowly toward him, skirting the stage and coming up in front of the pews.
He watched her with longing eyes. Each step she took encouraged the ridiculous idea that she might be Emma, reincarnated or magically come back to life.
Maybe by some miracle of ancient Tech Magic. Could it be?
By the time she came to a stop two paces in front of him, he had to wonder if she was a memory turned into a ghost come to haunt him.
He shook his head slowly, denying to himself that the woman was a ghost. “What is that you have there?” he choked.
The woman looked down at the bed sheets. “For Father Winthrop’s bed. I was going just now to change them.”
Blackthorn pointed at a pew. “Put those down.”
The girl hesitated for a moment, stuck between two bad choices. She drew in a deep breath, quickly placed the stack of folded sheets on the front pew, and went back to her spot a few paces in front of the General.
Seeing the full shape of her without the laundry to keep her hidden, Blackthorn dared not attempt to speak. He raised a finger in the air and made a swirling motion.
Nodding her understanding, the girl raised her arms half way up and slowly spun in a circle, coming to a stop and facing the General once again.
“Smile for me,” he said.
She did.
Blackthorn shook his head and stared, wishing that he’d found this woman before his manhood had fallen into uselessness. Looking at her brought back old feelings buried so deeply he’d thought they were forgotten.
“Shall I bring you something, General? Water? Wine?”
In the habit of turning down any offer of drink, Blackthorn shook his head. It occurred to him that he didn’t know how to address the woman, a thing he seldom thought of. He had little need of names. Nevertheless, he asked, “What do they call you?”
