by Bobby Adair
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 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 an
d 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.
"Wait!" she hissed. "It's almost impossible to shoot a moving target. When it stops moving, we'll creep up on it again."
They watched as the rabbit moved farther away. It stopped.
"Okay," she said, speaking so quietly that she barely moved her lips. "Let's go."
She looked over to find William smiling. The thrill of the hunt coursed through her, reminding her of her earliest hunting days. It made her feel alive again. Soon they'd gotten close enough that she could see the rabbit's puffy, furred tail.
She raised her bow. She aimed.
The rabbit turned sideways, exposing a round, inquisitive eye. She fired. The arrow cut through the air and struck its head, knocking it over and skewering it to the ground. Dead.
"A head shot. How'd you do that?" William asked, mouth stuck open in disbelief.
"Years of practice."
"I want to learn." The words tumbled out of his mouth, accompanying the eager look on his face. It was the same look she'd probably given Rowan and Cooley when she'd first started hunting. She smiled.
"Let's go get that one first. Then I'll teach you. I bet this field is full of them."
William agreed excitedly, and they darted over to grab their kill. Melora removed the arrow and wiped it on the grass. Then she had William store the rabbit in his bag. They continued hunting. This time, she let William hold the bow. She explained how to aim and fire.
"What does 'fire' mean?" William asked.
Melora paused. "I'm not sure. It's just the word we've always used, I guess."
"All I know is the fire that keeps us warm and cooks our food."
"In this case, it means to let go of the arrow."
"Oh. Okay," William said, digesting the information. His brow furrowed.
"Have you ever used a bow before?"
"A few times, at my friend's house, but I was never any good," William admitted.
"The rabbits out here probably haven't seen humans often. So they won't be as hard to hit. They'll likely run for short distances and stop. That'll give us a chance to get them."
His first few shots missed, but William was persistent, crouching and sneaking up on the animals with a tenacity Melora had rarely seen. He didn't get frustrated, and he didn't give up. Soon he'd hit one. His face lit with glee as the animal bucked and kicked. They chased it to the edge of the field, the arrow protruding from its back, until it had tired and fallen. William's smile persisted as they finished off and retrieved the animal.
"I have to tell Mom!" he yelled, holding the rabbit in the air.
Melora followed him as he raced across the field where Ella and Bray waited. It wasn't until she'd crossed half the distance that she realized her smile was wide enough to match William's.
Chapter 16: Fitzgerald
Fitzgerald followed Franklin toward Merchant Street—not the market where farmers sold their vegetables and hunters traded their skinny birds, but the street where the wealthy merchants sold their wares. Father Winthrop had instructed Franklin to take her there, and following General Blackthorn's instructions, get her properly clothed—and no matter what, to have it done by sundown.
Neither Franklin nor Fitz had spoken a word since leaving the temple. Franklin walked ahead and Fitz behind. As much as Fitz wanted Franklin to suffer in the silence of her anger, she knew the opportunity that she perceived while in the temple was something that might be lost if she dallied over her emotions like
a teenage girl.
She reached up and laid a hand on Franklin's shoulder
His body went rigid at her touch. He stopped in the middle of his stride but didn't turn back to look at her.
Unnecessarily, she said, "Wait a moment."
He said nothing in response.
"Look at me," she told him.
He shook his head. "I can't."
"Why?" she asked.
"I'm ashamed."
"For what you did to Oliver?"
"Yes."
She reached up again and pulled his shoulder to spin him around to face her.
Franklin complied, but when he turned, all he seemed to want to do was look at his feet.
"Listen to me," she said, "we need to talk."
He nodded.
"As much as it hurts me to say, something is happening, something more important than what happened with Oliver last night."
Franklin looked up, red-eyed and distressed. "What?"
Fitz looked toward the east. "There's a section of town over there, some ruins."
Franklin turned in that direction. "I know the area you're talking about. What of it?"
"We need to go there now," said Fitz. "We need a private place to talk."
Franklin's face lit up, and he gave himself away when his eyes fell to Fitz's breasts.
"Not that," she snapped. "We need to talk."
The place they went to was called the Crooked Box by the children. It had been called that when Fitz was a girl and had probably been called the same thing when her mother played there as a child. It was a strange structure of thick ancient stone, with six sides of varying length, and a thick roof. Each wall had a doorway, roughly a rectangle the size of a man but worn and crumbling on the edges. The Crooked Box stood in the center of a larger slab of mostly flat ancient stone. The children used the place as a make-believe fort, where the ones playing soldier climbed on top, and the ones playing the demons attempted to claw their way up.
When Fitz and Franklin arrived, Fitz shooed away two young boys doing something mischievous. She pulled Franklin inside, then spun around to look through the open doorways, ensuring no unwanted ears were close enough to hear.
