But it was hard for the girl to believe—in God and in men. Adam had freed her from Venicci’s grip, but she saw in him that same insatiable thirst. The way he looked as he murdered the smuggler, it gave her nightmares. Those were the times when faith was too great a burden. She thought of Ba’al and Adnihilo, how they had saved her too, yet she knew they were just as bad. All grown-ups are evil, she would conclude in the shadow of the night, then she’d listen to Adam cry in his sleep—in his dreams, like a child—then she would believe in him again, that he was different than the others. He would never hurt me. He loves me just like Darr. She tried to remember her brother, Bernard, but it had been so long since she’d seen him. She could only conjure the pastor’s son’s face.
By midday, it was cool and humid in the market. They’d dropped off their sticks at the old woman’s estate and were out with a list and a purse of Gautaman copper tails. “Can you read the squiggles yet,” asked Magdalynn as they arrived at their usual stop—a set of open-air stalls.
Adam shook his head and showed the merchant their list, then traded him a handful of copper for an urn of rice. “I gave that up days ago. I don’t even think the Gauts can read it.” He moved to the next stall and received a jar of yellow spices. He winced. “Looks like it’ll be the yellow rice again.”
“My poor mouth,” she said, and they laughed together the whole way to the old woman’s home.
She was waiting for them at the gate when they arrived, smiling her toothless smile. Her thin, crinkled skin reminded Magdalynn of the paint peeling on the wooden arches, and the shape of the arches reminded her of the curve of the woman’s back. Yet old as she was, their host was always ready for their return. Ever since the first day they happened upon her and helped the struggling woman haul home an urn heavy with rice, They’d arrive to a prepared wash basin and set table: four bowls, four cups, and four pairs of eating sticks. This day was no different, and like each of the thirty days before, they scrubbed her robes and wiped her floors till the smell of incense lured them inside for supper.
Wordlessly, for they shared no words, they sat together around the low-lying table and prayed over the food and over the empty bowl. As always, they ate in silence. Yet something felt odd to Magdalynn. She watched the old woman and her thin, sad eyes as they flitted from her to Adam, then from the empty bowl to the ink portrait enshrined on the wall behind it. The painting was of a man, happy and bearded with the wispy beard of Gautaman men. The incense smoking before him were burning low. The old woman rose and replaced the smoldering stubs, then she disappeared into another room.
“Do you think she knows we won’t come back tomorrow?” Magdalynn asked the pastor’s son. He nodded, and Magdalynn wanted to cry. I won’t, she knew, but that didn’t take the stinging from her eyes. “It’s not right to leave her.”
“We have to. She’ll get along just fine without us.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t,” he admitted, “but I have faith that there is justice in this world.” Justice? The image of Adam’s enraged face flashed before her—grisly with gritted teeth, spattered with the smuggler’s blood. She shivered despite her spice-burned tongue. Then the old woman rejoined them at the table with a present cupped in her tiny hands. She held it for Magdalynn, but the girl hesitated. “Go on,” Adam encouraged her.
It was a delicate jade comb hewn in the shape of a fish on one side, a pheasant on the other. The detail was impeccable. Every scale and every feather of the carven animals were visible from across the table. In Magdalynn’s hands, they looked even more beautiful, and in her hair bound up in Gautaman buns and braids, she felt like the ladies they passed in the alleys and on the evening streets. It was the first time in more than three years she’d felt this way—like a girl and not a slave. She hugged the old woman to hide the tears in her eyes. But their host only smiled and sent them to their final chores. Then before she knew it, the day was over, and the widow was just an image, a memory—a dream. In the morning, the harbor would join her, as would the chapel and the city.
Home.
Fourteenth Verse
Trey poured over the six rolls of parchment spread open across his desk. Three he had drafted himself the previous night: one to Pyke at the Watcher’s Eye, one to Saint Paul, and the last to his Aunt, Duchess Ariel Stoltz, lady to the duke of Castle Aestas. As he pressed the signet cross into the wax of each seal, he prayed they would be enough to keep Corvin alive till his return. He could have asked for more, but Ba’al frowned on leaning on the Lord more than necessary. He trusted his Aunt would do what he requested and that the commander had been honest in his letter. “Whole villages gone.” The thought gave him chills—the thrill of crisis. The Cross could not ask for superior timing.
His eyes moved to the three letters received. With these it seemed God
