“I could have told you that,” Fingers muttered.
The wagon passed through the gates and trundled up the driveway. The servants were spilling out of the manor house, Pharon at the front. A pale-faced maid burst from the others and ran towards the wagon. It was Jilly, Smiles’s wife. Her dark-brown hair flowed behind her.
“Phelep?” she asked.
“He’s alive,” Miguil answered. “He’s in the back, Jilly.”
“Sorry to worry you,” Smiles told his wife. “Just a minor mix-up with a feller holdin’ a sword.”
“A mix-up?” Jilly gasped as she climbed up into the back of the wagon, her skirts rustling. “What happened?”
“Well, the feller seemed to think stabbin’ his sword into my leg might improve it some,” Smiles said. “Alas, it had the opposite effect.”
“A sword?” Jilly’s face rippled with emotion. She took her husband’s hand and brought his knuckles to her lips. “How did that happen?”
“Riot,” Ōbhin said. “He fought well.”
“Of course he fought good,” Jilly said. “My Phelep ain’t no coward.”
Ōbhin swallowed. “No, he’s not that.”
“I stitched him up, good Jilly,” Dualayn said. “And used the healer on him. His leg is mending. He’ll be up and about tomorrow.”
“See, you don’t need to worry, Jilly, my dear,” Smiles said, a tenderness to his voice. He cupped his wife’s cheek with his free hand, the other resting over her belly. Her eyes closed, a tear spilling from the corner and racing down to his fingers.
“Okay,” she said.
The wagon clattered to a stop before the house. The maids and cooks surged around it while Bran bounced on his heels, peering in the back. Ōbhin hopped off. Maids recoiled from him. Blood spattered the front of his jerkin. He flexed his sword arm and rubbed his shoulder.
Avena spilled out after him, her skirts rustling. Questions came at her from the maids and cooks, a gaggle of chatter she couldn’t answer. Dizziness assaulted her. She broke away from them, her body shaking. She didn’t know why she trembled. She felt bathed in ice water. She clutched her hands to her knees, the urge to throw up swelling in her.
“Let’s get them inside,” said Pharon. The butler’s stiff words sent a flurry of action. “Come on, four each on a stretcher. Let’s go.”
Smiles groaned as he climbed down. He leaned on his wife and limped inside as Avena straightened. She kept down her stomach’s roiling contents. She heard Pharon talking to Dualayn on minutiae and a delivery being picked up while they were fleeing the riot. Her mind struggled to focus on anything. She swallowed and glanced at Ōbhin.
He stared at the blackberry hill.
Her mind, reeling from the flight, latched onto the last thing she remembered before the danger had started. Ōbhin returning from the street. He’d left his post. She marched up to him, needing to grip onto something to keep the helplessness at bay.
“Ōbhin,” she said. “You—”
He rounded on her, his face hard. Flecks of drying crimson splattered across his brown features. She swallowed and took a step back as he advanced on her. His black-gloved hands caught her arms, pulling her up short.
“What was that?” he demanded. “Throwing yourself into the fray?”
“Well . . . I . . . I just wanted to help.”
“Help? You almost got Smiles killed! You distracted him because he had to protect you.”
“I didn’t mean to fall,” Avena muttered, averting her gaze from his dark, hard eyes.
His hands tightened.
“Why do you keep throwing yourself into fights? Huh? Are you trying to get your head cracked open?”
“I don’t like feeling helpless.” Images swam through her thoughts, memories of that terrible day. She could smell the bitter tang of the whitewash. Evane thrashed. Mother cackled. “I can’t just stand by while someone is hurt. Not ever again.”
“Someone got hurt because you couldn’t stay out of it!” Ōbhin shook her. “Fighting isn’t a game for little girls to play. It’s serious. People die. Smiles could have died. If that sword had landed differently . . . If we didn’t have the healers . . . Do you want that on your hands, Avena?”
She violently shook her head.
“I . . . I just . . .” The terror swelled in her.
“What?” Ōbhin barked, his brown face twisted. “Are you that arrogant that you thought you’d help?”
She flinched. “I’m not useless.”
“You were during the fight.” He leaned closer to her. “You were a liability. Do you understand that? A weight that tripped up Smiles. You could have gotten us all hurt if the mob hadn’t broken. Leave the killing to those of us already stained.”
“I . . . I . . .” Her voice cracked as the horror of that day swelled up in her. It threatened to choke the words from her once more. To render her mute. “I killed my sister.”
Confusion struck Ōbhin. “You . . .” His brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“When we were children.” A chill fell on her. She knew they were alone. Everyone had gone inside to help the injured. Though the spring sun shone, winter swirled around her. She had to speak or the horror would rob her speech. “I had a twin sister. Evane.”
Her smiling face flashed through Avena’s mind. They raced through the field of wildflowers beyond their family’s farm. The soil was too rocky to plow. Her dress had fallen to her knees, the grass whipping at her shins. She chortled; the modest-winged butterflies had come. They took to flight, their wings flashing with green and purple. A riot of beauty around them. Her and Avena each clutched a bouquet of wildflowers for their mother.
She was having a black day.
Ōbhin shifted his stance. “You were children? An accident?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Avena
