Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
“We will,” the girl says. “He’ll be buried here, right beneath this tree he chose.”
Lowering my head, it is all I can do to walk away, my sodden slippers trudging up the incline, stepping through the fence rail, and carrying me back to the muddy lane. I was going to stop by the new parents anyway, and seeing that infant in all its vitality is what I need right now. As I go down the thoroughfare, there are all kinds of people out and about, their voices stressed and fast, their bodies overanimated—but that’s not just because of what they’re talking about.
I think of the horses, cantering and free in the sunlight.
Animals and people are not so different sometimes. But the humans here on Anathos are aware of what’s coming. The horses are just enjoying the sunshine and feel of their legs stretching.
When I arrive at the herbist shop, there’s a woman exiting with a small paper bag. She seems harried, her hair askew, and she bumps into me in her rush. Catching the door, I go inside—
There’s a line of talking women, and all of them look as though they’ve just rolled out of bed. They’re speaking in the language the stabler used with the girl, their rushing syllables covering the air like layers of fallen leaves, everything a jumble. Down at the register, Ronl is trying to get them to calm down, as he points at an empty glass container next to him.
I’ll bet whatever they’re looking for is to ward off evil. In an instant, I’m back at the burned-out settlement, looking at those markings by the doors … and the bloodstains on the floors.
Even though I’m scared, I’m doing the right thing in trying to go south, I tell myself.
As I catch his eye, he gives me a wave and nods at the door behind him. I hustle down and give his arm a pat as I scoot into the back.
“Lena?”
“In here,” comes the quick reply from the bedroom.
As I pass through, there are some swaddling blankets soaking in a tub by the water faucet, and a partially made breakfast on the counter of hens’ eggs, and a bread wedge.
Edging open the door, I smile at Lena as she feeds her precious daughter. Then I point over my shoulder. “It looks as though Ronl was making you something to eat and got interrupted. May I finish the job?”
“Oh, would you? I’m almost done with her, and I’m still a bit sore.”
“Just a moment.”
It feels very good to do a simple task, cracking the hens’ bounty over a cast-iron pan, and taking it over to the hearth. Sinking down onto my haunches, I go to put the—
The flames that curl up from the core of glowing embers bend toward me, their orange and yellow peaks tilting forward.
As I jerk back with a curse, Lena says with worry, “Sorrel?”
Shaking myself, I glance back at the bedroom door. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
I put my hand over my mouth. Then shove the pan onto the cooking grate and jump to my feet. “Oh, fine. Just fine, indeed.”
Rubbing my eyes, I tell myself that there’s a draft coming down the flue. A draft from the shop outside. A draft from the open window because the temperature outside is finally warming up.
By the time I deliver the plate, I’m recovered enough to trade the breakfast I’ve pulled together for the baby she birthed.
“Good morning then, little one…” I stroke the soft cheek and turn a finger over the downy sprinkling of dark hair.
Abruptly, I frown as it dawns on me Lena isn’t eating. “Have I burned the eggs?”
The new mother doesn’t appear to hear me. She’s staring at her baby, her brows down, her mouth in a tense line.
“Are you not feeling well?” I prompt as I go on high alert.
“There was a slaughter last night.” Her voice is soft, the words murmured absently, as if she’s speaking to herself. “In the sheepling pasture.”
“Ah … yes, I heard that there was a badness with some animals—”
“It was more than that. There was a death, of a man.”
Putting the bairn up on my shoulder, I try to keep my expression neutral. “Who was it?”
“The cook.” Lena shakes her head. “From the pub.”
When she goes no further, I prompt, “What happened?”
She looks away from her daughter when she answers. “The men who went down to look at the body said … it was a demon.”
Sixty
Goodbyes.
“‘Field-dressed’ is the term, I believe.” Lena rubs her eyes, and drops her hands into her lap. “One of the herders found him and the sheeplings in the morning when he went to let his animals out to pasture. The cook’s stomach … had been cut open—torn. Desecrated. In life, that man had a horrible reputation, but nobody should die like that.”