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“Yes, Little Goddess, a horse.” Something wicked tugged at the corner of his lips. “Unless youwould rather ride withme?”
I eyed the palomino mare as she plucked a broad-leaf thistle weed, small enough that it would still be tender. It was a jackpot of a find for her, considering the crowded, dirty corral she was in. Years of manure and rotting hay were piled so high, it was a wonder she didn’t walk over the remaining few feet of fence. But she didn’t—she was too invested in searching for a blade or two of grass among the heaping piles of horse dung and swarming black flies.
I didn’t know much about horses, as I had only ridden them a handful of times, but judging by the looks of her sunken haunches and weary eyes, it had been a while since she’d left the confines of her corral—and a while since she’d had a proper meal.
“Good bloodlines this one. She’s about sixteen hands high, a bit on the taller side for the breed,” said the horse dealer—a short man with a sparse gray beard he frequently stroked. He patted her backside twice, a puff of dust coating the air.
She flicked her tail at him, swatting him away as if he were just another bothersome fly.
“What do you think?” Von asked, his tattooed arm draped over a wooden post, the paint worn off by the strokes of time.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Do you think she’ll make the journey?”
Gray Beard cut in. “Don’t let her old age fool you, she’s still got a lot of miles left in her.”
He misunderstood what I was asking. I wasn’t talking about her age—more so her gaunt, malnourished state. I could hardly imagine her making it across town, let alone the three-day ride it was going to take for us to get to the city of Belamour.
But she was the only horse available, and as I watched her as she searched for another nibble of grass, compassion overwhelmed me. No living thing deserved to be kept in such a tight, confined space.
“We’ll take her. Does she—” The end of my sentence was clipped short as a black fly took a greedy bite out of my arm. I wacked at it, cursing the little beast as it flew away.
“Does she have a name?” I finished.
Gray Beard nodded, his fingers rhythmically stroking the wiry strands of his beard again. “Yes, milady. Full name’s Lightning Breeze, but I call her Lightning.”
The name did not suit her. Lightning implied speed, and nothing about her suggested that. She even chewed slow, like molasses being poured on the coldest of January days. I performed a mental shrug, my hands too busy defending myself from the black fly horde buzzing around me. Eager to get away from the swarm, I gestured to Gray Beard, my voice directed at Von. “Well, pay the man.”
“So bossy,” Von murmured amusedly, completely unbothered by the flies—even they knew he was rotten to the core. Von tossed a small cloth pouch towards Gray Beard, the coin clinking inside as it landed in his hand. “We will be needing a saddle as well.”
Gray Beard hastily dumped the pouch out into his calloused, soil-blackened palm. He jiggled the coins, testing their weight. He offered us a wide, toothless smile and then stepped into his shop, the slab door groaning in protest as it closed behind him. Not long after, he returned, producing a worn brown saddle.
Later that day, I sat atop Lightning, my hands wrapped around the saddle horn. Von held the bridle, leading us through the dirty, sludge-filled streets of Norwood. People watched as we walked by, and some women even stopped their bustling to stare—at Von. I couldn’t blame them—he was something to look at. No wonder the husbands quickly tugged their wives along, one even covering his wife’s eyes, saying “Look away, woman,” as if Von were the king of sin, sent here to corrupt her soul with his primal masculinity.
And those damn leather pants were not helping matters.
Despite the constant looks and blatant staring, Von didn’t seem to notice, didn’t seem to care.
As we made our way through the older part of town, I surveyed the poor, rundown condition of the homes. From the cracked, moss-covered foundations and the bowing timber walls to the sagging roofs, spotted with a few remnants of clay slats, everything here seemed worn, old, and tired. Given up on. It reminded me of the poor horse I was riding, the thought stirring my hand to pet her neck a couple of times.
To my left, a few houses ahead, a door flung open, the sound of a crying babe coming from inside. A red-cheeked woman rushed out, carrying a heavy-looking chamber pot. With a huff, she dumped it onto the streets before she hurried back inside. The sound of the baby’s cry snuffed out as the door slammed behind her.
And then it hit me.The smell.
I made a face, clamping my mouth shut and fighting with the contents of my roiling stomach. One would think after living with Ezra for so many years, I’d be used to such putrid smells, and yet the opposite was true.
“Norwood uses the old sewage system,” Von said nonchalantly, as if he were immune to the rotten, festering egg smell.
“I can see that.”And smell it.I pinched my nose.
The old system relied on manual labor for sewage disposal and fresh water—this meant dumping chamber pots by hand and fetching water from the closest well.
The new system had been invented by a man named Horace Crete. He used underground clay pipes to move fresh water and sewage to and from homes—in separate pipes, of course. Originally, the Cursed had used their powers to pressure and heat the system, but after the ruling monarchy declared war on them, the system was forced to rely on heavy rainfall for pressure and fire to heat the water instead. It was considered a major step back as the system no longer ran as well as it had when the Cursed looked after it.
When it was discovered that Crete was Cursed, despite giving Edenvale the gift of indoor plumbing, he was captured, tortured, and Cleansed.
I owed my knowledge of Crete to Kaleb. As Kaleb was an aspiring inventor, naturally he looked up to Crete—learned everything he possibly could about the man.
I glanced at Von. “I didn’t know the old system was still in use within the cities. I thought it was just some of the villages and towns that had yet to switch over.” Meristone had made the switch many years ago—well before my birth.
