by Bobby Adair
“Fitzgerald,” she answered.
Blackthorn nodded as he foundered for something more to say, feeling a kind of nervousness he hadn’t felt since he was a young man.
He looked around the vast Sanctuary. The ornate cushioned chair sitting on the stage caught his eye. In all the years over which his few visits were spread, he’d never seen anything in that spot but a lectern behind which the clergyman of the day bemoaned man’s plight to the pew-sitters. He pointed at the chair. “I’ve not seen this before.”
Fitzgerald turned toward the chair as though it were first being pointed out to her. “When Father Winthrop receives guests and petitioners, he sits there.”
Blackthorn nodded. “Is Father Winthrop in the building?”
“I believe so,” she said. “I’ve yet to see him leave.”
Taking great pains again to remember his manners, he asked, “Would you be so kind as to fetch him for me?”
Nodding, Fitzgerald leaned forward to pick the laundry up off the pew.
Blackthorn got a glimpse down her threadbare dress. “Stop.”
Fitzgerald froze, looking up at the General.
“Leave those.”
She nodded and straightened up again.
“Why does Father Winthrop dress you like a Barren Woman, in what might be the most tattered dress I’ve ever seen?”
In a voice shaking with nerves, Fitzgerald said, “I don’t ask such questions.”
Blackthorn nodded as though he understood, but he didn’t. The state of the woman’s dress devalued his already low opinion of Winthrop. “Go and fetch him.”
Fitzgerald hurried off in the direction of the other hall.
Blackthorn walked up to the stage and looked at the ridiculous chair. He thought about having one of his men come in and haul it out for firewood. Only the workmanship that went into the chair’s construction at the hands of the Ancients, along with its obvious age, prevented him from doing so.
Instead, he climbed the steps that led up to the stage and stopped in front of the chair. As he looked down on the thing, he decided it wasn’t so grand. Blackthorn turned and seated himself.
He waited.
Chapter 12: Blackthorn
From far down the hall in which Fitzgerald had disappeared, Blackthorn heard a series of knocks. A heavy door creaked on old hinges. The indistinct pomposity of Winthrop’s voice berated the girl. When the bellowing fool’s voice stifled itself with a sudden pinch, Blackthorn knew Fitzgerald had delivered the news of his presence.
For the first time in more years than he could remember, Blackthorn smiled. The expression felt out of place on his face. But he enjoyed the thought of cowardly Father Winthrop being so afraid of earning his ire that he wouldn’t even scold his servants, knowing that Blackthorn could hear the anger in his voice.
A little while after the voices stopped, he heard Father Winthrop’s door close. The rotund Bishop shuffled and wheezed his way up the hall. He finally emerged from the doorway, looking at his feet and grumbling rebellious curses. Winthrop turned and planted one foot on the stairs as he prepared to climb. Then his eyes fell on Blackthorn, at home in the ornate old chair.
Winthrop’s sturdy bones startled themselves to immobility. His fat flowed forward under the womanly robe until it reached the limit of his stretchy skin, nearly throwing him off balance. He caught himself against the wall.
Winthrop’s face settled into an expression of spoiled sadness that Blackthorn had only ever seen on the faces of merchants’ fat children.
Winthrop stopped. He didn’t move.
Blackthorn watched him stare, happy to leave him stuck between cowardice and indecision.
Fitzgerald made her way through the gap between Winthrop’s voluminous butt and the front row of pews, heading across the walkway on the floor in front of the stage. She picked up her linens and cast a quick glance around.
Blackthorn raised a hand to let her know to remain. “Stop,” he said. Tired of the game of Winthrop’s paralysis, Blackthorn pointed at the pew at the foot of the stage and told Winthrop to sit.
Winthrop choked on words stuck in his throat, and his face reddened. He didn’t protest. He huffed and turned away from the stairs. He waddled along in front of the stage and came to a stop, standing on the floor, looking at Blackthorn sitting in the special chair. Blackthorn pointed at the pew again.
Winthrop’s face turned to silent anger, and he turned to vent it on Fitzgerald. He hissed, “Go and finish your chores, useless whore.”
“No.” Blackthorn clenched his jaw as he felt a spark of inexplicable anger. It wasn’t Winthrop’s repressed insolence that had prodded him. No, that was just a product of Blackthorn’s choice to toy with him. It was what Winthrop said to Fitzgerald that tweaked Blackthorn.
Winthrop’s mouth opened and closed on nothing, making him look like a gasping fish.
Blackthorn pointed at the pew where he expected Winthrop to plant himself. He asked, “Why do you not provide this woman with a set of clothing befitting her place? If she is a serving woman and maid, dress her as such.”
Winthrop looked at Fitzgerald. He rubbed a hand across his mushy jowls and said, “She—” His words left him, and he sat down instead of finishing.
Blackthorn said, “She’ll remain here in case I require a drink while I listen to what I’m certain will be a litany of protests.” He looked over at Fitzgerald. “Seat yourself and wait.”
Silently, she did.
Glaring at Winthrop, Blackthorn said, “Put her in a proper dress. Do it before the sun sets.”
Winthrop nodded.
Turning to stare at Fitzgerald, wanting very much to drink the vision of her, Blackthorn said to Winthrop, “When you’ve composed yourself, you may speak. I’ve listened to your girlish wails too many times in these past days. Tell me, if I leave you in Brighton instead of taking you with the other men to battle the demons at the Ancient City, how will it benefit Brighton?” Blackthorn turned back to Winthrop, fire in his eyes. “Tell me how your cowardice will go unnoticed by so many in your flock who are willing to put their lives in the jaws of the demon to keep you safe?”
Chapter 13: Ella
Ella and Melora chatted quietly while they walked, speaking about Melora’s childhood. Melora told of her times hunting with her friends, the way she’d helped Frederick and Jean on the farm, and the Davenport festivals. Melora’s voice grew excited, as if remembering things distracted her from what had happened.
“That reminds me of myself growing up,” Ella said, wishing she were young and carefree again, before life’s tragedies had started to stack up against her.
“Did you like Brighton?”
“I always tried to. But when I think about it, I’m not sure it ever felt like home.” Ella paused to remember, the days they’d been running suddenly feeling much longer. “The buildings are even taller than in Davenport. There are a lot of people there. So many that I don’t even know all their names.”
“I can’t imagine that. It must be nice to meet people you’ve never seen. I always liked it when travelers came to Davenport. They had such good stories. I’d listen, even though Frederick and Jean didn’t like me to.”
“Brighton is a nice place, but it’s also dangerous. Things are very strict with the Elders in town. A single misused word or an imagined vendetta can lead to the pyre, even a spiking.” Ella shuddered at the memory of several tear-stricken, pleading people being led to their deaths.
“I think I can understand that.” Melora fell silent. She looked around. “Where are we going, Mom?”
Ella stared around the forest as if she’d just woken up in it. They’d entered an old section of woods, with thick, gray tree trunks. Gnarled roots sprouted from the ground in patternless directions. Bray and William forged ahead, oblivious to the fact
that Ella and Melora had stopped.
“I’m not sure,” Ella admitted.
Ella called to Bray, who spun and reached for his sword.
“Everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Do you need a break?” Bray jogged back to where they were standing, venturing a smile. William was at his heels.
“We just want to know where we’re going,” Ella said.
Bray beckoned at the area around them. “We’re in one of the oldest sections of the woods. It’ll be harder for the soldiers to track us here with the roots. The ground is dry; it doesn’t look like the snow hit here.”
“I mean after that. Where are we headed?” Ella stared at him intently.
Before Bray could answer, Melora offered, “The man who owned the dwelling, Roger, told me about the Ancient City. He said it’s beautiful there, and that there are many treasures. Rowan and I talked about going there, before the fire.”
Ella frowned. During their time tracking the Davenport survivors, Bray had suggested they were heading in that direction.
But that might’ve been a coincidence.
“The Ancient City is dangerous,” Ella said. “I don’t know if it’d be a good idea.”
“It’s dangerous, but if we can find a place to hide and gather enough food, we might be safe from the soldiers,” Bray said.
Melora added, “And there are treasures there. Maybe we could salvage some and sell them.”
Ella watched Bray. She thought she saw a spark in his eye.
“Forget about your skins and promises of treasures, for once, Bray. The area is infested with demons,” Ella protested. “It’s not safe for children.”
“I’m not a child anymore,” William argued. “I’m growing up. You said so yourself.”
“The soldiers won’t venture near the Ancient City.” Bray shrugged and spat on the ground. “So in that regard, Melora’s right. It’s probably safe for that very reason. There are buildings on the outskirts of the city that might be habitable, at least until Blackthorn chases after some other poor woman foolish enough to break one of his precious rules, and forgets about you.”
Melora held up the bow she’d scavenged from the soldiers. “I’m a good hunter. If we find a place on the edge of the City, I can help capture things in the wild. I can bring them back to eat. If things are looking dangerous, we can always retreat into the forest.”
“How far is the Ancient City?” Ella asked.
Bray rolled his eyes. “Does it matter? It’s not much farther than we’ve already traveled.”
Ella stared at the resolved faces around her. William and Melora seemed excited. As hesitant as she was, Ella couldn’t think of a better plan.
“All right, then. Let’s go,” Ella relented.
She hoped she wasn’t making a mistake.
Chapter 14: Fitzgerald
Fitzgerald felt like a leaf on the winter’s wind. She tumbled through a range of feelings that grated on nerves frazzled by a long night of crying over Oliver and Franklin. With General Blackthorn gone, Father Winthrop remained on the pew in front of the empty throne-chair, sweating through his robe.
Finally pulling the bits of his embarrassed ego back together, Father Winthrop sucked in a breath, muttered through a long string of garbled syllables that only he seemed to understand, hauled his weight up off the pew, and waddled back toward his wing of the temple. When he reached the entrance to the hall, he stopped.
“Find Franklin and send him to my chambers,” he called over his shoulder without looking.
He disappeared into the shadows of the hall.
Fitz didn’t respond. She was afraid her voice would remind Winthrop that he’d been embarrassed in front of her. She knew she’d pay the price for that. So she hid behind silence, the only camouflage she had, listening to Winthrop make his way slowly down the hall toward his bedchamber.
Franklin and Oliver had returned from the market earlier while General Blackthorn was in the middle of what had turned out to be a lengthy diatribe. They hurried through the Temple Sanctuary and down the hall that led toward the kitchen and the Novice’s quarters.
As Blackthorn carried on, Franklin and Oliver came separately into the hall that led from their end of the temple, each peeking and listening momentarily before scampering away.
Fitz saw fright on Oliver’s face each time he came into her view. The fright was for her. He knew better than most how quickly powerful men’s angry words turned into abrasions and bruises.
Franklin wore worry all over his face every time he came near the end of the hall. Fitz didn’t know what to think about that. She was still angry with him over what he’d done to Oliver.
Mostly, she tried to ignore them, because she had listening and thinking to do. Both Blackthorn and Winthrop thought what they were talking about was too convoluted, too high-minded for an ignorant serving girl to understand. Why else would they speak in such a way where she could see and hear?
Unfortunately for them, she understood completely. What’s more, she knew that in all those words lived opportunity. To take advantage of that opportunity, Fitzgerald needed to consider her own choices and come to some decisions that could turn her fortunes around.
Hers and Franklin’s.
Perhaps.
She was still torn over that.
She felt things for Franklin she never thought she’d feel. She was a Barren Woman, forbidden to marry. It was only by a turn of fortune—or misfortune, she still wasn’t sure—that she wasn’t still in The House, entertaining stinking men every night.
She’d heard girls whisper of love when she was a young girl herself. She’d had crushes on the older boys and knew other girls who did, as well. At first, she’d even wondered if she would fall in love with the boy her father had arranged for her to marry. That ended soon into the marriage, though. He turned out to be as cruel as he was handsome, and that cruelty found its fury in drink and flowed out through his fists.
Fitzgerald often wondered whether her inability to bear children was not her fault at all, but the fault of a sadistic husband who’d beaten her at the wrong time. She’d heard rumors of other women who’d lost a baby after a drunken husband had punished her too severely. After, the woman became pregnant no more. It was not an uncommon story. The story was often speculated upon among the Barren Women when they had nothing else to do, on nights when the wind blew cold enough to keep the men of the town indoors with their despised wives.
With Franklin, Fitzgerald had taken a stupid chance and had let herself hope that all of that could be put behind her. With the exception of what Franklin had done to Oliver, Franklin was gentle. He was kind. He said things that made her feel beautiful and loved.
Part of what fueled her anger the night before was the belief that she’d invested herself in another pleasant-faced brute who was just like her ex-husband.
That was the primary reason she hadn’t slept. Between her heart and her head, she couldn’t reconcile what Franklin had done. She couldn’t match that sadistic face he wore while beating Oliver with the young man she knew him to be.
Chapter 15: Melora
Melora battled a slew of emotions as she trekked with her family and the Warden. As appealing as the Ancient City sounded, she’d never lived a life as uncertain as the one she was living now. Like every other young person in town, she’d dreamed of a life in the wild, free of the restraints of family, unbidden by rules.
But not like this.
How could she forget Frederick and Jean? How could she forget Rowan and Cooley? The rest of the villagers?
She couldn’t imagine a life without a home to go back to. As grateful as she was to be reunited with her mother and William, nothing could replace the people she’d lost.
They were crossing a
large, grassy plain in the sunlight, when William cried, “A rabbit!” He gave chase.
“Wait!” Melora hissed as the rabbit pounced to safety through thick, snow-tipped grass.
She looked at Bray and Ella. For the majority of the day, her stomach had felt sick, filled with the burden of loss. The rabbit had stirred her instincts. It had also incited her hunger. William stopped, looking at her.
“If we’re careful, we can shoot it,” Melora whispered, grabbing an arrow. “Have you ever hunted a rabbit?” she asked William.
“No,” he said.
To Ella, she said, “Do you mind if I take William with me?”
Ella hesitated and looked around. She looked nervous. “Don’t go far. Stay within sight of us.”
“I will.”
Beckoning for William to stay close, Melora crept through the grass in the direction they’d last seen the rabbit. The animal had stopped moving. She stared intently at the field, searching for clues as to its whereabouts. She took several steps at a time, stopping, searching. Soon they were fifty yards from her mother and Bray.
“Where is it?” William whispered.
“Quiet,” Melora warned. “Patience is the best way to hunt rabbits. You have to move slowly, a few steps at a time.”
“Okay.”
The words she’d been taught—Rowan’s words—came flooding back to her, as if he were standing over her shoulder. “Watch for parts of the rabbit. Sometimes you might only see the ears, or the eye, or the tail. But once you find it, you can try to get off a shot when it’s still.”
“All right.”
William mimicked her movements as she slunk through the field. The frozen grass whispered against his pants. The wind blew lightly through his hair, ruffling his coat. The field extended for several hundred yards before turning back to forest. Melora hunkered down, keeping close to William. They’d gone another few steps when a rabbit burst from the grass, kicking its furred legs and stirring up snow. Melora grabbed William’s arm and pulled him to a stop.
