FEEDING THE POOR WITH ONE HAND, SLITTING THROATS WITH THE OTHER
The streets were still sleepy, painted gray by the soft wash of early morning.
A few miners shuffled toward the mountain with their heads down, while shopkeepers cracked open their doors, sweeping last night’s dust out of their thresholds.
I moved among them like a shadow, not a part of the morning crowd, but not a stranger either.
Just someone with a different kind of work to do.
I pulled my coat tighter around me, a navy-blue thing that had seen too many winters and far too few washings, and let the crisp air settle over me.
It cleared my head, or normally it would have.
Mr. Cromwell’s face still lingered in the corners of my mind, but today wasn’t about him. Today was about giving.
My first stop was the community garden, a patch of stubborn life coaxed out of the dry earth behind the general store.
It belonged to no one and everyone: old women with bent backs, church ladies with more prayers than teeth, and Tilly, a freckled orphan who thought dandelions were currency.
Every week, I brought what I could from The Oily Cat, seeds, tools, money, or just my hands.
Most people in town liked to pretend I didn’t exist outside of whispered gossip, but Mrs. Barlow, sweet, sturdy, and sharper than anyone gave her credit for, always treated me with kindness.
“Thought you could use a little breakfast, dear,” she said, holding out a basket with a still-warm loaf and half a dozen eggs.
“You spoil me.” I smiled, taking it with a small curtsy. “But be careful now, you wouldn't want people seeing you being kind to the town whore.”
Mrs. Barlow huffed a small laugh, though her eyes softened when she looked at me. “You’ve done more for this town than most folks ever will. Don’t let ’em tell you otherwise.”
I nodded, thankful for her kindness. I didn’t do what I did for recognition, but coming from her, it landed differently.
We said our goodbyes, and from there I made my way to St. Ann’s, the old Catholic church downtown.
Inside, it smelled of lemon oil and old parchment, and the wood floors groaned beneath me whenever I walked too fast. I’d spent half my childhood running through these pews, terrorizing nuns, and pestering Father Cyrus with questions no priest should ever have to answer.
I spotted him right away, placing hymnals on the benches.
He looked almost exactly the same as he had when I was twelve: same gentle eyes, same familiar haircut, though the brown had quietly surrendered to gray.
“Well, well,” I said, leaning against a pew with careless ease. “If it isn’t the most eligible bachelor in town.”
Father Cyrus looked up and grinned. “Bernadette. I assume you’re here to pray for forgiveness, or has hell finally frozen over?”
“Oh, Father, you wound me.” I clutched my chest dramatically. “Can’t a wayward soul just drop in and admire the architecture without being accused of sin?”
He gave me a sideways look, the kind only a man who’s known you since you had skinned knees and sticky fingers could give. “With you, I assume sin is already tucked under your arm like a good handbag.”
I laughed, delighted by the jab. “You’re getting spicy in your old age.”
He shrugged, amused. “You’re getting predictable in yours.”
I smirked, mock offended. “Ouch,” I said as I brought a gloved hand to my chest like I’d just been shot, staggering back half a step for theatrical effect.
He chuckled, shaking his head at my drama. Then he set down his stack of books and leaned on the pulpit, watching me with his warm, priestly look that never seemed to demand anything. Just saw straight through people.
“Garden still holding up?” He asked.
“Flourishing,” I answered. “The basil’s starting to act like it owns the place.”
“Must’ve learned that from you.”
I smirked. “It’s not easy being queen of both roses and whores, but I manage.”
“You always did walk a line no one else dared to draw.” There was a moment of silence between us then, comfortable and familiar. “You know,” he said gently, “you give more than anyone I know. And still, half this town only sees what they want to.”
“Let them,” I replied, brushing dust off my skirt. “They can keep their judgment. I’ve got bread to deliver and bouncers who know how to bury secrets.”
Father Cyrus frowned, the corner of his mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to scold me or laugh. “You always say things like they are a joke.”
I gave him a look, half fond, half daring. “And you always look like you might cry if I don’t.”
He gave me a knowing smile but didn’t press. That’s what I loved about Father Cyrus, he knew when to dig and when to leave the dirt where it lay. “I’ve got more errands,” I said, standing. “People to feed, lives to meddle in. You know how it is.”
“Of course,” he said, still smiling. “You never stop.”
I tossed a glance over my shoulder. “Someone’s got to keep the world spinning. And I’m not above using a little leverage.”
He called out, catching me just as I turned to go. “Bernadette?”
I paused at the doors, hand on the frame.
“You’re not fooling me, you know,” he said. “I see what you’re building, what you’re protecting. It matters.”
I didn’t respond, just offered him a wink and a devilish grin before stepping back into the sunlight.
By midday, I had already fulfilled half a dozen promises.
I had given away the last of the garden’s produce, a few bags of clothing, and a basket of bread.
I had sat with a young girl who was grieving the recent departure of her father, offering her a shoulder to lean on.
I’d even met with the constable, slipping him a small sum of money for extra patrols along the town’s edge, where the miners sometimes found themselves in trouble.
As I walked back to The Oily Cat, I couldn’t help but reflect on how the town viewed me.
They saw me as a woman who had fallen from grace, someone to be pitied or scorned.
They didn’t understand the work I did, the people I helped, the lives I touched, even in my own quiet way.
And no matter what they called me—madam, sinner, outcast—I knew what I really was.
A giver.
And, when necessary, a taker.