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By the looks of our petrified guest, Ezra was well on her way to the guillotine made of iron and flame.
“Your friend is awake,” Ezra said as her fingers stripped the meat off a smaller bone. She dropped it into one of the piles and shoved her oily thumb in her mouth, sucking off the stray bits of meat.Old, rotten meat.
I nearly gagged.
She reached across the table and grabbed another bone, this time bringing it under her nose and inhaling deeply. Loudly.
I sucked in a breath as I scuttled behind Ezra. “Oh, don’t mind her,” I said as I offered up my fakest-pleasant smile. My hands dropped onto her shoulders, giving a gentlecut-it-outsqueeze. “She’s senile.”
Smack.
A chicken wing slapped my forehead, the decaying, gooey meat like glue. Slowly, it slid down my face before it fell to the floor.
I blinked, brightened my smile, and offered sweetly, “Tea?”
Ten minutes later, Ezra, the woman, and I sat around the table, heaped with bones. Steam rolled from our clay cups, steeping a loose-leaf tea blend—herbs from the market, not Ezra’s personal collection. Still, the woman plucked hers from the table and eyed it suspiciously before taking a small, hesitant sip. I couldn’t blame her. I would have probably done the same.
“Where am I?” she asked, eyes nervously glancing around the cottage.
“A short walk from the village, in my family’s cottage. I was there . . .” I paused, softening my tone as I fumbled for words. “We didn’t want to leave you there. But we didn’t know where you lived, so we brought you here.” I swallowed. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Her shoulders fell. “Anika was my daughter.” Clouds of emotion pooled above her lower lash line. She placed her cup on the table and ran her finger along the imperfect handle. Her gaze rose, locking with mine. “She wasn’t Cursed. I’d know if she had the disease. I’m her mother, for Lady Light’s sake.”
Ezra clicked her tongue.
The woman looked at Ezra, suspicion returning.
“She’s religious,” I piped up, trying to cover for her. “When we were kids, we’d get the ol’ frying pan over the head any time we took the Goddess of Life’s name in vain.”
Smooth.My inner critic seethed at the lie.
“My apologies,” the woman offered, teardrops tumbling down her rosy cheeks. “Anika adored Lady Light.” A small sigh. “I remember her being just a wee thing, kneeling by the bed and praying to the goddess, asking her to keep us safe. To keep us healthy. And always together. She’s all I had.” Pain, visceral and raw, saturated every word. “And I wonder, when I return home, will she be there waiting on the doorstep for me?”
I did not know what to say to this stranger who bared her broken soul. And as I watched her drop her face into her hands and weep, guilt began to swell in me.
I had been there.
And I had done nothing.
Just as I had done nothing every other time.
Ezra’s chair shifted against the wood floor as she stood, walked over to the woman, and wrapped her arms around her—stranger to stranger, mother to mother, heart to heart.
Later that afternoon, I accompanied the woman, whose name I learned was Mirabel, to the village, and when we arrived at her humble home with its empty doorstep, a tidal wave of guilt nearly dropped me to my knees.
I could have tried to save the girl.
But I hadn’t.
I hadn’t done anything.
Potter Street was the busiest street during the day. Down the middle, the market was made up of a string of pop-up vendors. The vendors called out, coaxing buyers to taste their produce or touch the fabrics or whatever else they had to sell. An occasional argument would break out when there was a disagreement over quality or price—something the soldiers would snicker over but never involve themselves in. On the east and west sides of the street, buildings constructed of stone masonry stood side to side, and a wide tapestry of shops filled them—smiths, merchants, traders, various craftsmen.
Unlike yesterday, Meristone was bursting with everyday life. Children of a variety of ages chased one another, their laughter filling the air. Not far away, a man with a voice soft as dew sang while he plucked at his lute, a small crowd gathered around him, clapping along as he sang a tale about a lover whose hair was spun from night and whose eyes burned like coal.
The cloaked male lingered on the apex of my thoughts and for a second, I could almost picture him standing there, his unnaturally dark gaze locked with mine, the taste of his magic filling my nose. The magic I sensed that day, it belonged to him. I believed he was Cursed with Air. That his magic fed the flames, causing them to quicken—to burn faster. But why would he do that?
