Twenty-Three
D espite Cin’s anger and grief, the grumbling in his stomach pushed him to keep moving.
He stoked a fire in the hearth. As he waited for the stove coals to heat, he peeled the final bundle of potatoes he’d harvested from the fading garden a few days prior, pulling them up by their black, frost-bitten stems to find barely-edible tubers beneath.
When they were cooked through, he fed a few of the pieces to Perdition, who cooed her thanks before letting him tuck her back against his heart.
It was still a wonder not to feel the sharp pain shooting through his ribs at every turn.
His chest: it was his chest, and there was not a moment since he’d taken his first breath against it that he worried it wouldn’t be there for the next. But the lack of ache in his sides felt different. Like his body still expected to hurt, every motion prepared for a compromise with the pain.
Cin had not realized just how cautious every action he took had become: the energy he’d dedicated to approaching things from the right angle.
Holding and cutting, pushing and pulling—everything felt different now, like he could be careless after so many years of not realizing he was caring in the first place.
He threw the basil and garlic into the pot whole and sliced the onion in quarters, nearly taking his finger off with it as he sped up the motions beyond what his ribs would normally permit.
The end result wasn’t fit for a prince, or even the original inhabitants of the Reinholz estate, but it would fill their stomachs just fine.
It filled Cin’s, at least, and only Floy grumbled about the flavor of the broth, Emma and Manfred both slurping down their entire bowls in a feverish haze while Louise snapped at them for their manners and Cin’s father diligently stared into his own soup between every slow bite.
They left Cin to clean the dishes after, yawning their way back into the now-cold second parlor.
Cin yawned too as he moved the soup off the stove.
From down the hall, Floy shouted at him to tend their hearth.
One of his hands slipped. The towels that padded them shifted as he struggled to catch the large pot, shoving it back into place. The side of his thumb stung, and he shoved it absently against his tongue. The taste of ash filled his mouth.
“Any time now!” Louise called, echoing the demands of the rest of Cin’s family.
His hands shook as he lit one hearth after another, each fire taking longer to coax into something capable of warding against the late autumn chill.
His hands felt raw by the end. It was all he could do to drag himself to the kitchen hearth.
The room was snug now, at least, the embers still hot.
He was too tired to wipe the ash that had crept forth from the fire as he bundled his cloak and lay across the warm stone.
A foot immediately prodded him in the side.
“Cinder,” Louise snapped, no “child” tagged gently onto the end to soften the blow. “You have a room of your own! One not covered in ashes .”
Cin sat up groggily. “There’s still a draft.”
Louise only gave him a firm kick in the thigh. “How do you think we lived while you were off gallivanting on your little adventure? At least you’ll have a fire. Go!” She kicked again.
Cin grunted as he stood. His attention slipped over the embers, still bright and hot in the hearth, and he thought of what it might be like to see one spill out of its stone home, to watch as their world went up in flame.
But that would take Cin with it. If he was going to burn his world to the ground, he refused to go up in the inferno.
Not now that he had something to live for.
“Fine,” he muttered to Louise, and stumbled miserably toward the hall, his cloak bunched in his arms.
She called after him, “And clean yourself tomorrow before you tend the chores! You’re as filthy as a damn whore.”
T he rest of the week went little better.
If Cin had any hope that his family would get over his absence quickly, it was dashed with each new demand and pointless badgering.
Only Emma didn’t harass Cin. Whenever the rest of their family grew too restless and aggressive, she seemed to vanish, sneaking away in her nightgown for hours at a time, her hair a mess and her knuckles raw with cold.
Caring for her every inadequacy had always annoyed Cin, but somehow this was far worse.
It felt as though the only light in his home life had been extinguished, turning to a ghostly presence that fled from the horrors that surrounded him.
And, when Cin had the courage to admit it to himself, being abandoned by Emma hurt.
It wasn’t as though she’d have been able to change the rest of their family’s treatment, but he had not realized how much having her tiny spark of affection had made everything else feel bearable.
Like he could be doing this all for her.
He had been doing it all for her.
Cin choked on the thought through the end of the week, and all Saturday morning as he tromped across the house trying desperately to get enough done that he could run into town before his family left for the final ball.
Louise claimed that Father would be attending with her, despite how little interest he seemed to show in it.
He seemed already to be plotting his next trip in his mind.
He’d sat at the table that morning long after breakfast had been cleared, staring out the window into the distance. Every attempt Cin had made to speak with him had ended with one word: not sharp, not short, just detached.
Was he still hungry?— No , soft, unconcerned.
What had he heard of the balls?—A shrug, his gaze unmoving.
Was his trip successful?— Enough , spoken as though he was dreaming of living it again.
For once, Cin almost— almost —didn’t blame him. He didn’t want to be there any more than his father did. But unlike his father, Cin had no easy way out, not for any longer than a half a day at least.
The one good sign of the week was watching Perdition heal.
She seemed more chipper by the day, hopping around Cin’s drafty room, where a crack he’d left in the window allowed her flock-mates access.
They brought her bugs and seeds to complement the vegetable and boiled potatoes that Cin had been sneaking her from his own meals, and she’d made a little nest for herself in the fabric of his old binding.
Despite her improved energy and enthusiasm, she had not attempted to fly again, one of her wings tucked in awkwardly even when she made a point to stretch and flap the other.
He worried at what that meant—both now and for her future—but regardless of whether the wing healed, Cin was determined to be there for her, just as her little flock had been there for him.
When he left with one of the horses on Saturday morning, he turned east to loop around, past the home of the woman he’d watched cry behind her well far too many times already, whispering an apology to Prince Lorenz’s kind heart as he did.
However much he hated it, he was still this: still a menace, turning the villains into victims.
He found the house dark, though—both front and back doors locked and the horse and wagon gone from the barn. He hoped that meant the woman had left for good, but more likely the couple were just out visiting friends or family for the day. If her husband still gave her that decency.
In town, Cin tried his best to ignore the ball gossip.
Everyone had a favorite for the prince’s hand—none of them knowing yet that it wouldn’t be his choice at all.
Few truly thought their future queen might be Floy, though every mention of his sibling’s name still made Cin’s stomach twist. Worse though, were those who were placing all their bets on the mysterious feathered seducer.
There were so many—too many—and Cin swore he heard whispers of the Plumed Menace within some of their giddy conversations.
At least none of them seemed to notice him, not as the prince’s friend, much less as their notorious killer.
Dorthe waved to him when he passed her on the street, but most of the town couldn’t even seem to place him as Cinder-Szule, even when they should have, when he’d seen them every week for years, knew their names and lives and loves.
Or maybe they did recognize him, and they simply didn’t care to know him beyond that. No one had ever seemed to.
Except Emma.
And Lorenz.
Somehow, he seemed doomed to lose one for the other.
By the time he’d finished his rounds, the supply pack he’d mounted on the horse was barely any heavier.
A little flour, a block of cheese, a few of the vegetables he’d traded for their potatoes, a couple of jars of jam that would have to last them half the winter if Father’s next venture didn’t bring in something more substantial, and an embroidery needle for Floy, to replace the one Manfred had broken earlier that week—whether by accident or purposefully, Cin still wasn’t sure.
The only reason Cin was picking up the new one at all was because Floy had insisted there was no way they could go without the needle for another Sunday.
Which made Cin particularly confused when, on his way through the main square, he spotted Floy across the street.
Confused, then annoyed, then confused again as Floy glanced both ways before slipping down the alley past the town’s main chapel, the buildings now constructed so tightly around it that its little graveyard out back barely saw the sun.
Cin had meant to pause in the square’s high place for his usual glimpse at the castle’s towers—even having visited them couldn’t remove the superstition—but he sent up a hasty prayer for God not to frown on him as he redirected toward the chapel instead.
He kept his distance as he followed Floy around the far side of the chapel, turning right, then left, then right again. When he came back out onto the next main road though, they had vanished. Into a house? Down a side street? He couldn’t know for certain.
Why Floy had come to town in the first place… Cin wasn’t sure what to make of it. He didn’t have much time to dwell on that, though, as someone barged out of the house around the corner in front of him.
He recognized her instantly, tears streaming down her cheeks with the same ferocity as they had on all the days she’d hid behind her well.
Her husband stormed after her. Cin’s hand went to the knife at his back, instinct driving the motion before he could even piece together a useful thought, and he shifted his mount into the shadows of the home’s outer wall where it met the empty city street.
Before Cin could act, a second woman stormed after them both.
The husband turned to her, his voice low and sharp. “Olinda has had enough of your cruelty.”
“She was our sister before she was ever your wife!” the new woman snapped back.
She shoved around him and grabbed onto Olinda, her hand clamping onto her sister’s wrist. “Do not listen to him. We told you not to marry a damned Falchovarian! Can’t you see how he’s trying to turn you against us—against your own family . ”
The words seemed so tender, so caring, but Cin could see the way they tore into Olinda, just as the woman’s fingernails tore into Olinda’s wrist—tore the same cruel lines Cin had attributed to her husband.
Cin’s understanding of the situation shifted rapidly, recounting everything he’d seen in a new light.
The man he’d assumed was the villain stood to one side awkwardly, anxiously, looking like he wanted to pull his wife and her sister apart, but didn’t think he had the right.
He’d already said all he could to try to convince Olinda not to keep coming back here—perhaps too loudly and messily, but out of love nonetheless.
The way he was watching Olinda then, Cin could see that affection coursing through his being.
“Linny,” he begged, offering her a hand, as though by taking it, he could finally free her from this burden.
Olinda’s fingers twitched toward his, but her sister grabbed her other hand too, yanking at her.
“You cannot leave me here to care for Father alone,” she hissed. “We are your blood .”
She had barely spoken when Olinda jerked back, tearing her wrists free. “No!”
By the shock on her sister’s face, it seemed it was the first time she’d ever done so. “No..?”
“I don’t care what you say.” Olinda took a step back, then away, gripping onto her husband’s hands, but her ire stayed fixed on her sister.
“You and Father have needed too much of me, for too long, and I— I need Theobold now. He built me a garden, he gives me space to read, he leaves me be when I need it. He did not turn me against you. You did that all yourself.”
Her sister sputtered, her cheeks reddening, but Olinda finally turned her attention to her husband as he whispered, “Can we go home?”
“Please,” she replied.
Together, they turned away from the fuming sister.
Her face contorted. She spun and stormed back into the house. But she didn’t close the door.
Cin’s gut twisted. He dismounted, one hand still on the hilt of his blade, and when the woman barreled back out of her home with a butcher’s knife in hand, he was already there, slipping in behind her.
But for once, he couldn’t bring himself to drive metal into flesh, couldn’t bear to watch the blood pool over his hands.
His mind rang with a voice, calling him to be good.
This time it wasn’t his mother’s, though; it was Prince Lorenz, cupping the side of his face, telling him he already was.
Cin still couldn’t believe that, but he knew what he did believe: that sometimes the victims weren’t good or gentle and their villains were complicated.
And that meant so too was their justice.
A blade speared deep in this villain— his victim’s —throat would be too simple.
Cin pressed it there heavily instead, holding her from behind.
“I would not do that if I were you,” he hissed. “You are not worthy to be her sister. Forget about her. Or I will not forget about you.”
Olinda and her husband did not once look back.
For a heartbeat, Cin wanted the happy couple to be him with his prince so badly he thought he might trade the whole world for it.
Reality pulled him from the dream, though, as the back of his neck prickled with a tense, anxious sensation unlike anything he’d felt in town before.
It was so akin to what he’d felt stepping into a monster’s lair that it took him a moment to recognize it as the feeling of being watched.
But when he glanced behind him, no one was there.