38. Penny
Penny
W alking into the wrecked cottage was almost more than I could take.
I was still reeling from my argument with Merrick and stricken by Kit’s limited rebuttal.
He wasn’t half as convincing as I wanted him to be.
It happened that way a lot: he was different in public than he was at home.
Sometimes I wondered which version, if either, was closer to the real Kit.
Cleaning gave me time to think and stew and eventually seethe.
I started in my bedroom, flinging the sheets over the straw mattress and stuffing clothing back into the tiny dresser without bothering to fold any of it.
The flurry of movement made my chest ache from the brand, and by the time I made it to the living room, I’d had my fill of Kit’s shirt scrubbing against my raw skin.
I tugged out of the tunic and flung it onto the sofa.
My hair hung in my eyes, sticking to the sweat on my brow. It was getting long—longer than Mother ever allowed it. I swiped it off my forehead with the back of my arm as I kicked the firewood into its rack, then straightened the journals on the shelves beside the fireplace.
I spared those a spiteful glare. I didn’t care for Kit’s father’s diaries or the “wisdom” they purportedly contained.
Every time Kit cracked the spine on one of the damned things, he spent the rest of the night spiraling.
He stayed awake scrutinizing every line of text and occasionally muttering about someone named “O” until the second or third cup of whiskey caught up with him and he fell asleep face down in the aged parchment.
Dusting my hands on my slacks, I turned next to the kitchen.
Every cabinet was open with dishes, pots, and pans strewn about.
I remembered buying so many of those things, outfitting the abandoned little house with the comforts of home.
I’d settled in here, believing myself safe despite Kit’s frequent warnings.
Now, I felt violated. And knowing he was at least partially right made me angrier.
I started with the plates, stacking and shoving them into the nearest cabinet.
As much as I wanted everything put right, it felt futile.
If men here, directed by my brother, had the freedom to invade and destroy our privacy on a whim, who was to say they wouldn’t return?
Perhaps I should have piled all our possessions in the middle of the floor instead, or on the front lawn to expedite their next search.
Somewhere in the midst of organizing the scattered heap of utensils, guilt twinged.
Part of me blamed Kit for failing to refute Merrick’s claims. I’d left him at the smithy because I had already loosed my tongue enough for one day and didn’t want to make him the victim of my next tirade. But this trouble was mine.
Merrick was angry because I should have gone home. I should never have come here in the first place. It would have been easier to fill in my father’s sunken grave and pretend nothing had happened. They were only bones, after all. I didn’t believe in the curse, or in Eeus, or any of this.
I froze, holding a pair of spoons in one hand and a cast iron skillet in the other. I looked down at the skeletal dragon scorched onto the left side of my chest. The skin remained red and inflamed days after the torturous branding ceremony.
From there, my gaze traveled to my hands, gnarled and webbed with scars. I set the skillet and spoons aside and flexed my fingers. I wore my mistakes, both old and new. It was like I hadn’t learned better. Maybe I never would.
Melancholy consumed me as I finished tidying the kitchen.
My stomach grumbled, and I glanced out the window to check the progression of the sun.
I’d worked through lunch, and dinnertime was fast approaching.
We didn’t have any meat, but I’d set out a pot of beans to soak the night before and could scrounge up enough dry goods to bake a loaf of bread.
I lit the fire in the stove to start the beans simmering, then retrieved a large bowl and a jar of flour.
Dough came together with a pinch of sugar, yeast, and a splash of water.
I used the spoon to combine it, then dumped the ball of dough onto the counter and began pressing my knuckles into it.
It stretched and rolled across the wood block, softening as I worked out every lump.
After serving as Rosie’s designated kneader for weeks, I had developed a knack for it.
I knew the loaf was ready to rest and rise, but I kept working it anyway, pouring my frustration into the methodical work, squishing the dough between my fingers and dipping into the jar for additional flour until I heard the front door creak open.
Kit’s boots thumped against the floorboards as he came slowly through the living room. He drew near, but I couldn’t bring myself to face him. I felt too many things—sorry, angry, confused, and hurt—and I hoped he would leave me alone with the bread and the beans.
Instead, he came closer, brushing against my bare back as he peered over my shoulder at the lump of dough pinned under my palm.
“I think you may have kneaded it to death,” he mused.
“May have.”
Without turning, I scraped the dough off the counter and dumped it into the sink. Grabbing the bowl again, I measured another helping of flour into it. Other ingredients were added with hasty pours and sprinkles while Kit looked on.
I’d barely stabbed the spoon into the mixture before one emotion triumphed over the rest: hurt. Gods, I hurt. I ached all the way into my bones, for too many reasons to count. I had it in mind to try, and I spun around to where Kit lingered, watching with his brow furrowed.
Rather than speak, I swallowed. My arms hung limp at my sides, and my shoulders drooped. I imagined I made a sorry sight: shirtless, sweaty, dusted with flour, and on the verge of tears.
“Sayla makes the best bread,” I said at last. It wasn’t what I meant to talk about, but there were too many things competing for voice. “It’s better than Rosie’s.”
Kit cocked his head, and my mouth twisted in a frown.
“Don’t tell her I said that,” I added.
I’d tried not to talk excessively about my life in Eastcliff and everything I’d left behind. It was my choice, after all. Kit warned me about it, but I’d been so stubborn. Too stubborn to admit to yet another blunder.
“I would never,” Kit said.
I was too tired to pull away when he reached for me and rested a hand on my shoulder .
“It’s a few more months to spring planting. I know it feels like forever, but you’ll see them again soon.” His smile was soft, and it wore down some of my lingering irritation. “I’m looking forward to it, personally.”
I hadn’t considered that Kit would accompany me back to the farm. The thought sparked hope in me as much as his proximity did. I wanted so badly to lean in and tuck myself against him and believe that maybe he felt for me even a fraction of what I felt for him.
“You want to come with me?” I asked instead.
“Of course. I liked your family.” He chuckled. “Besides, you’re my recruit. Where you go, I go.”
Of course. It wasn’t affection, just obligation.
I turned toward the tiny dining table. Exhaustion crept in, and I dragged myself to a chair and sat.
Kit followed suit, sitting beside me and leaning back in his chair to pull a sheathed dagger from his belt.
I recognized the handle as the one Matina had shown Levitt and Merrick in the forge earlier.
It was the knife Kit said he’d made for me.
He set it on the table, then nudged it toward me. “I know you’re capable of defending yourself with words, at least, but this might help with the rest. Just try not to use it on your brother.”
I reached for the knife and lifted it. I hadn’t seen the sheath before, carved leather and hand-stitched, meticulously engraved with the image of a bird with fire on its wings instead of feathers.
I thought of Kit’s tattoo, the one he’d used to cover up Eeus’s mark.
This creature looked similar. A phoenix, mythical and immortal, able to rise from its ashes and be reborn.
For all of Kit’s comments about having no knack for artistry, he did a fine job on the etching. It was beautiful, and the thought of how much time and effort he must have invested in creating it caused my heart to stutter .
“You and I are alike,” Kit said, “in more ways than I realized.” He stretched his hand across the table and laid it atop mine. His soot-stained fingers wrapped around my scarred ones. “We’ve both endured suffering and come out of it new.” He scooted closer, turning so his knees bumped into mine.
The distance, or lack of it, felt intimate, and I found myself leaning in as well.
“I admire you, Penny. You have so much light and fire…”
He paused to chew his lip, but I didn’t dare cut in because every word felt so important. I set the dagger down and focused wholly on him as he continued.
“I lived my life in the dark for years before you showed up. The world felt cold and distant, and I thought that was it for me, that what I had was all I deserved.” His contemplative look relaxed, and he met my eyes.
The flecks of gold there were like sunlight dancing off water.
He squeezed my hand. “But you’re warm and bright, and being close to you feels…
right. I know I said you had me suffering, but honestly? I think you brought me out of it.”
I felt warm now, from my face all the way to my feet. I was tingling and so hot I might have been sweating again.
As the quiet stretched on, Kit’s gaze cut away. He seemed to ponder, and I held my breath until he spoke again.
“Thoma thinks you’re handsome.”
It was so abrupt that all I could do was stammer. “What? When did he say that?”
“This afternoon. He and Reimond came by the shop and helped me clean up.”
I regretted abandoning him with the mess, but intrigue overrode my guilt. “And you all talked about me?”