Patrick shook his head and took it from her, but didn’t light it. He sat in the seat beside her, throwing the newsprint to the floor, and their shoulders brushed.
It was dark in the shed, but the smoker’s hole had windows and a wide-open door. The night had turned clear, periwinkle, silent in a way Kenton Hill never was. He now craved the endless rumble of home.
At his side, Nina rubbed her arms, nodded to the stars. “That’s Neveretti’s Cross,” she said softly, in a way that drew Patrick’s attention to her lips rather than the constellations. “Do you know the story of Neveretti?”
Patrick put the cigarette between his lips. “Somethin’ tells me I’m about to.”
She rolled her eyes, and for a moment, they were back in that city courtyard, legs crossed, her explaining the world to him like the meaning of it all was obvious. “Neveretti was a man of the sea,” she began, “and every day he stood on the shore and prayed that the waves wouldn’t flood his village. His people watched the water come right up to the banks, then retreat, and believed Neveretti was a messenger of God. They called him the Keeper of the Sea. Each day, Neveretti would pray for the waves to retreat, and every day they did. He would return home to his wife, his daughter, and his bird.”
“Hisbird?”
“Do you want to hear the rest of the story or not?”
Despite himself, Patrick grinned. “Go on, then.”
“One day, Neveretti did not go to the shore, and he didn’t pray.”
“I’ll bet his wife was relieved,” Patrick said.
Nina smirked but otherwise ignored him. “He’d been too ill to rise from bed, and so the waves breached the banks and swept into the village. They carried his wife, his daughter, and the caged bird out to sea. Neveretti blamed himself and went to save them. He was the strongest swimmer in the village, after all. Who else would save them, if not him? He found his wife first, taking her on his back. Then he swam further and found the bird in its cage.
“Last, he found his daughter, but when he turned around, he was too far from the shore. The weight of all he carried impeded him, and together they drowned.
“When he arrived in hell, Neveretti was confused. He began listing all the good he had done in his life. He told the devil that he had tried to save his wife from the water, and the Devil replied, ‘Your wife could swim.’ Next, Neveretti claimed he had tried to save his bird. But the Devil replied, ‘The bird could fly.’ Last, Neveretti fell to his knees and cried out the name of his daughter. ‘Your daughter,’ said the Devil, ‘was already dead, and yet by trying to save her, you drowned them all.’
“In a final bid for salvation, Neveretti said, ‘I am the Keeper of the Sea, and I protected my people from the waves for as long as I could.’ But the devil shook his head and said, ‘The tide ebbs and flows without you, by the will of God, and you are no god.’?”
Patrick watched the frost of Nina’s breath dissipate with that final sentence and waited. “Horrible bloody story,” he muttered, pulling the cigarette from his mouth again. He had yet to light it.
“My mother used to tell me that one,” Nina said conversationally. “Among others.”
Patrick saw again the noose, the lever, the woman on the platform wholooked so much like the woman at his side. The laughter bubbling in his throat turned abruptly to ash. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“Are you about to liken me to Neveretti?”
“Neveretti was an imbecile. I’m sure you know better than to think yourself a god.”
Patrick sighed. “There ain’t a god. Just a world full of terrible people.”
She nodded, and once she might have disparaged Patrick his lack of faith, but he believed the past months had peeled all charity from her bones. Perhaps now, she was fated to be as cynical as he was.
Lord, he hoped not.
“I’d agree with you, but I’ve found there’s still some good in it.” It was whisper-soft, and her eyes did not turn to Neveretti’s Cross or to the crumbling main street. They turned up to Patrick as though he were the map of stars.
Patrick raised his eyebrows. “A gangster?”
She shook her head, tilted it. “No, he’s just a man, I’m afraid.”
Patrick turned the cigarette over his fingers once more, then threw it to the ground, stamped it into the snow. He knew she hated the smell. “I’m not half good enough, Nina,” he said. “And if there is a hell, one day I’ll be takin’ my place in it, right beside Neveretti and his fuckin’ bird.”
Nina reached up and touched his forehead, sinking the pads of her fingers into the creases. “Does blaming yourself for the deaths of all these Crafters help them?” she asked, and the words struck a chord in Patrick’s chest, as though she’d reached in and plucked it. “Does it save you from all the bad you think you’ve done?”
“I’m not lookin’ for salvation.”
“You didn’t kill the people here, Patrick. Nor the people in Kenton Hill, or Dorser, or Hesson—”
