Chapter 4 #2
We pay a visit to the trading post, too.
A few traveling merchants have set up temporary stalls along its weathered tables.
Not many; most avoid the Burn entirely, because there’s so little profit to be made here.
But we’re able to exchange some of the things Briar stole, and we purchase a few more: a sack of grain, some salted fish, a few jars of lamp oil.
It isn’t much, but we share what we can with our neighbors. We smile and try to lift their spirits as we hand things out, and Briar regales some of them with embellished tales of our latest misadventures.
But by the time all of this is finished, both of our moods are sour. Deflated. Not even Briar can joke her way out of the feeling that we haven’t done enough.
That it’s never going to be enough.
We arrive at the small shack we share with Marta.
She isn’t home; she’s likely at the shop down the road, mending clothes and trying to spin respectable garments out of whatever scraps people bring her.
Doing what she can to help us get by, even though her old hands are so gnarled and stiff she can barely thread a needle anymore.
Briar mutters a goodbye, then disappears into her tiny room and closes the door.
I wash up and change into clean clothes, my motions slow and methodical.
The days’ events continue to play on repeat in my mind as I flop onto my worn-out mattress and pull the slightly-musty smelling blanket up around me.
Questions swirl. Despair creeps like frost into my heart, killing off any seed of peace that tries to sprout.
But I’m so tired that none of these things keep me from falling asleep.
It’s well past nightfall before I wake.
We don’t waste oil or candles unless absolutely necessary, so it’s pitch black in my room until I feel for the window beside my bed, pulling the tattered curtain away from it and allowing a bit of moonlight to filter in.
Even then, it’s too dark to make out much—not that there’s much to make out.
Nothing beyond my lumpy mattress, the battered dresser missing most of its knobs, and the shelf where I keep some of the trinkets I’ve made from scrap materials over the years.
I don’t really need to see, though; I’ve memorized the number of steps between all the corners and edges in this room so that I can move quickly, more easily through this space, even with limited depth perception.
Making my way into the center room of our shack—into a space that serves as a kitchen, a workspace, and whatever else we need it to be—I find Marta sitting at the smaller of two worn tables, mending the sleeve of a coat.
The room smells like the hot lemon water she’s always drinking, and there’s a stack of unfinished clothing piled in the corner, as usual; she moves too slowly these days to get everything done at the shop.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” she says without looking up from her work.
I mumble something incoherent in response, searching the cabinet for a clean cup and our small, sacred canister of tea leaves.
We’re running low on these leaves, along with everything else.
I’ve been trying to stretch them out as long as I can, but tonight I decide to indulge; I don’t think I’ll be able to keep myself awake if I don’t.
The fire is already lit, the kettle sitting beside it. I manage to fill that kettle without any spills, but hooking it over the open flame proves tricky. After a few failed attempts, Marta rises with a grunt and comes over, bumping me aside.
“Let me do that before you burn yourself,” she grumbles.
I usually hate letting people help me. She and Briar are the only exceptions—only because I know they don’t think I’m incapable because of my injury; they’re just impatient.
While she finishes fixing my tea, I do her a favor in return, organizing the pile of garments along with her scattered spools of thread and needles.
As I’m sorting through the messy box where she keeps her supplies, my hand falls on one of the many trinkets I’ve made over the past few years: a small sun fashioned out of bent wire and a flattened coin.
It’s the closest thing I have to a hobby these days, I guess; collecting scraps and repurposing them into something resembling art. Marta often calls me Little Crow—usually while rolling her eyes at this compulsion I have to scavenge shiny things that most would consider trash.
This tiny, lopsided sun was one of the first things I made. I smile a bit, realizing she’s kept it all this time.
A few minutes later, she plops my cup onto the table and eases back into her seat with a sigh.
“This came for you, by the way,” she says, fishing a crumpled envelope from her pocket.
I take it, settling down into the rickety chair opposite of her and running my fingers over its wax seal, which features a serpent coiled around a tower.
“That’s the crooked Baron of Grenmire’s seal, ain’t it?”
“Mm.” I slice the seal with my nail. “Crooked and rich.”
“Those two go hand in hand far too often for my liking.” She leans back, folding her burly arms across her chest. The chair creaks and groans under her substantial weight. “You be careful who you’re mixing yourself up with, you hear?”
“I’ll be fine,” I insist, pulling out and unfolding the letter, which turns out to be a job offer, as I’d hoped it would be. I skim it quickly to get to the bottom, where the proposed payment is usually listed.
I have to read this part several times before it registers.
Three hundred gold marks.
That would feed our entire village for weeks—several times over.
Marta taps the table to get my attention. “What’s with that shocked face, eh?”
I can’t seem to form words, my mind already racing with all the possible things I could do with that much money. I slide the letter over to Marta and silently sip my tea while she reads it.
She seems less impressed by it than I am. Not surprising; she’s usually the least-impressed person in any given room. “Something seems fishy about this, don’t it?”
I can’t disagree. It’s one of the tenets those of my profession live by, after all: If something seems too good to be true, it usually is.
And yet…
“It’s an interesting proposition.” I try to sound casual.
Marta doesn’t buy it. “You’re gonna get yourself killed one of these days, taking on every questionable job that comes your way. And then what good will you be doing anybody, hm?”
I continue to sip my tea without replying. Marta goes back to her mending work, muttering occasionally to herself. The letter lays on the table between us like a glittering ember, full of both temptation and threat. A spark that could ultimately comfort or consume.
Three hundred gold marks.
Maybe it is too good to be true.
Or maybe this village is simply due for a little good luck, for some unexpected generosity.
I can’t say for sure.
But there in the dark warmth of our cramped house, as I absently trace the rim of my cup, I let a foreign feeling wash over me—one that I don’t usually entertain these days.
Hope.
After finishing my tea and enduring a few more stern words from Marta, I change out of my threadbare sleep clothes and step out into the cool night, the baron’s letter carefully tucked into my coat pocket.
I doubt I’ll have to look very hard to find Briar. The Burn is small—there are only so many places she could go—and she’s predictable.
She isn’t the only one continually drawn into the Soot and Cinder’s warmth and noise, either; the tavern is bustling as usual.
As I step inside, I’m greeted with several waves, a few boisterous declarations of still here!, and a drunk, sloppy kiss from one of the servers—Finn. His lingering touch on my waist is an invitation to come find him after he’s done working, should I want to.
Normally, I’d be more than willing to take him up on the offer.
But tonight, I’m on a mission. So I push past Finn, making my way through the thick crowd and the haze of smoke.
An impromptu musical performance has started in one corner, as it often does here, with an array of worn instruments—many of them homemade—filling the room with a jovial tune.
The floor vibrates with patrons stomping their feet, keeping rough time with the melody.
Toward the back of the building, Briar is standing on a chair, her arms spread out wide.
Opposite of her is Koen Mercer, balancing on one foot on a chair of his own, a tankard wobbling in his left hand.
They seem to be having a competition, daring one another to strike increasingly ridiculous poses—much to the delight of the laughing, cheering crowd of people around them.
Neither of them looks particularly sober, which honestly makes their balance that much more impressive.
Briar catches sight of me and waves.
I smile back, brows lifting.
“We’re calling it a tie!” she declares, jabbing her finger toward Koen.
He protests, but she ignores him, giving a little bow before hopping down with a flourish.
Koen tumbles down a moment later, into the waiting arms of several giggling women.
They don’t seem to care that he’s just showered them in whatever liquid was left in his tankard; they embrace him all the same.
Briar shoots a quick, dirty look their way, but she maintains her composure and makes her way over to me.
“So, you were able to keep your plans for this evening, I see.”
She gives me a sheepish smile. “He’s an idiot, but he’s fun.”
“No judgment here,” I assure her. “But I’ve got something important to show you; see if your future bedmate can slip us into a quieter room in the back, why don’t you?”