9. Penny
Penny
Rosie had made pecan tarts using the last of the fall crop.
Pecans held fond memories for me, reminding me of the first kiss I stole from Kit.
That blush of hope and the beginning of something wonderful.
I was trying to have hope now that this new endeavor in the forge would be wonderful, or at least tolerable. So, I took the tarts as an omen.
Also, I was not above bribery, so I grabbed a few extras as a gift for the new smith. I didn’t know of anyone who could be grouchy when treated with sweets. It wasn’t possible.
Turning up at the blacksmith stall felt like entering a new place. It looked the same as we’d left it weeks ago, but the atmosphere had changed. It was heavier. Harder to push through. And so very hot.
Sweat beaded at my hairline as I stepped into the shop. I willed my mouth to smile and my hands to steady as they gripped the brown paper package containing the tarts.
Everything was in its place, tools hung on racks, charcoal stacked to feed the fire, and the barrels of water and quenching oil standing by. It wasn’t a large space, so I’d barely entered before I was noticed by the barrel-chested man lording over the anvil.
He was middle-aged and scruffy. No, more than that: wooly.
Hair came from everywhere. On his head and along his jaw, matching brown curls spilled over the collar of his shirt, and a few rogue strands peeked out of his nostrils as they flared.
He looked down at me, and I wondered if he was some relation of Anders. I barely came up to his shoulder.
“Can I help you?” he rumbled in a voice as big as he was.
I coughed, not clearing anything but the clutch of my nerves as I adjusted my bundle of baked goods and extended a hand. “Penwell,” I said, cursing the crack in my voice. “I’m the… your… apprentice?”
He looked at me over the bump of his hairy nose, and his lips curved downward.
I could imagine a hundred reasons for his immediate disdain.
I was hardly the image of confidence, and I didn’t fit the profile for a smith.
I didn’t have strong shoulders like Kit, built more wiry and lean, and he would soon learn I didn’t have the knowledge of a smith, either.
Still, he clasped my hand with his gloved one and gave it a bone-crushing squeeze.
“Cedric,” he grunted.
After a single pump up and down, he seemed ready to release me, then glanced down instead.
His gaze halted on the hand he held captive, and I could imagine what he thought then, too.
My skin was discolored and mottled with scar tissue from those old, old burns.
Pink and white like webbing that mangled every digit and stretched halfway up my arms.
Everyone noticed it, but it always surprised me when someone was bold enough to comment.
“What’s all this?” Cedric raised my arm to the muted light.
My next breath went stale in my chest.
Maybe this was a good thing. I could explain my trepidation around the forge. My fear of fire. Maybe Cedric would be kind about it. Patient, like Kit had been.
“I… got burned,” I hedged, unsure how much he wanted to know.
He snorted. “Did you stick your damn hand in the coals?” Scoffing again, he glanced at my other hand clutching the bag of baked goods. His eyes went wide. “Both of ‘em?”
My cheeks warmed, and I ducked my head. “No, it wasn’t… I wasn’t a smith then.”
I wasn’t a smith now, either. Nor a farmer. Kit had said I could be a baker in Forstford, but that felt so far away now…
“Just unlucky, then,” Cedric grunted.
It wasn’t a question, more of a statement, and it felt apt enough given the events of the past few days that I didn’t argue.
“I suppose so.”
Cedric harrumphed and dropped my arm. “What’s that?” He stabbed a gloved finger at the bag I held.
“Oh!” Startling to awareness, I hurried to unwrap the paper. “I brought… breakfast?” I held out the tarts. The sight of them made my mouth water, but Cedric looked less than impressed.
“Haven’t you eaten?” he asked.
Kit tried to convince me to have at least a bit of oatmeal to settle my anxious stomach, but I’d gone without, anticipating something sweet and comforting from Rosie’s stand. That hope slowly faded at the sight of Cedric’s scorn.
“No, sir,” I mumbled.
“Well, ya should’ve,” he said. “We’re here to work, not eat. Put ‘em away.”
Sheepish, I refolded the paper carefully, tucking the tarts out of sight behind my back. “Maybe for lunch, then?” I asked, but my voice was small, and Cedric was turning away, so he likely didn’t hear.
The loss of his attention brought a bit of relief as I headed to the workbench at the back of the shop. My leatherworking supplies were there, a safe distance from the forge and the heat of the coals. I set the baked goods down and was about to take a seat on the stool when Cedric called after me.
“What’re you doing?”
I flinched and turned, caught beneath his stern stare.
Wordlessly, I gestured to the pile of hide and tanned leather awaiting my hands. He made a rough sound in his throat, then jabbed a thick finger toward a teetering stack of metal miscellany I could only assume was work orders that had accumulated while Kit and I were in Eastcliff.
Cedric didn’t stop watching me until I gave a nod and slunk closer, the smell of charcoal and scorched metal growing stronger with every step I took toward where he loomed by the anvil.
“I was told you’d been apprenticing since the fall,” he said, his eyes never leaving the piece he was hammering.
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
He grunted again. “I’d wager you can manage this after that amount of time.”
He didn’t say what this was, just waved a hand vaguely at the wall rack and muttered, “Apron and gloves. Not that your hands could get much worse.” He gave a short, barking laugh at his own joke, and I winced before I could stop myself.
Still, I did as I was told. By the time I returned to Cedric’s side, properly outfitted, he was poking at the glowing coals with a set of tongs. Without a word, he extended them to me. Clamped in the iron teeth, a rod of something glowed orange-hot.
I took the tongs, holding them as far from my body as the length would allow, but even with the gloves, I could feel the heat blooming along my arm and searing my face. My eyes stung. My breath came shorter. I tried not to lean away.
Cedric had already turned back to his other work, hammering with purposeful vigor. But after a beat, he glanced sideways and made a noise of disgust.
“No, no—hold it like this.” He strode over, adjusted my grip roughly, and twisted the tongs in my hands. “And turn it. Keep the heat even.”
Then he returned to his work.
I counted my breaths. Focused on the metal. My arms shook, just a little.
A minute passed. Maybe two.
“How long are you gonna hold it in there?” Cedric barked suddenly. “Pull it out, or you’ll ruin the damn thing.”
He reached for my arm, and without thinking—without meaning to—I let go. The tongs fell with a clatter into the coals, taking the metal piece with them.
Cedric cursed loudly enough that a couple of passersby on the street turned their heads. He snatched another pair of tongs, reached into the firepot, and dragged the first pair out.
“Some kind of apprentice you are,” he growled. “They’ve saddled me with a dunce. What can you do?”
I swallowed, throat dry and rough. “I mostly worked with the leather. I… I’m not good with fire.”
I thought he understood; he’d seen my scars. I’d tried to explain…
Cedric’s brows crashed together like storm clouds. “Not good with—? Gods above.” He spat on the ground, and something in me shrank. “You’ll have to get over that. Childish fear. How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“A man, then.” He leveled me with a look that left no room to argue. “And shouldn’t you act like one?”
“Yes, sir.”
My cheeks burned hotter than the forge, and I didn’t know if it was from anger or embarrassment—only that I wished I could disappear behind the rack of horseshoes or curl up beneath the workbench and vanish from his sight.
My hands clenched in the too-big gloves, stiff and useless. I wasn’t just failing—I was failing publicly, and that stung worse than any burn.
“That’s what I thought.” He turned back toward the stack of orders and barked, “I need to get through this list, and for that, I need a smith, not a leatherworker. Understood?”
I bobbed my head because I couldn’t bring myself to speak.
Cedric nodded once more. “Then I’m gonna teach you the way you ought to have been taught.”
The remainder of the day went about as well as those first few minutes.
I returned home after helping close the shop, sooty and sweaty and sniffling with the tears I’d barely held at bay.
Stumbling into the cottage, I kicked off my boots before passing into the living room and dropping the battered package of pastries on the low table.
We didn’t eat them at lunch—didn’t eat at all—and now my mood was so sour I feared it would taint the taste of them.
I flopped down onto my back on the couch and flung an arm across my eyes.
A long, deep sigh wheezed out of me. Tears pressed in, but at least I could breathe now without Cedric’s scowl bearing down.
The whole day had been spent avoiding reprimand and largely failing.
I had no doubt Cedric would be cursing my name long into the night and again tomorrow when I returned to work.
Words like “disappointment” and “oaf” rattled around in my brain, robbing me of even a modicum of peace.
The scuffle of bare feet announced Kit entering the room.
My brows scrunched down, eyes still shielded from the light and his attention.
“Penny?” he asked. A bit more shuffling preceded the dip of the sofa cushion as he lowered himself near my head.
He smelled like soap, so fresh and clean I would have normally buried myself in him.
Nose first, then lips, then clambering into his lap so the scent of him would overwhelm me.
I would feel better in the circle of his arms, I always did, but I wasn’t ready for comfort yet.
I was too frustrated. Too angry. Too sad.
So, I stayed put while Kit raked his hand through my hair, sweeping the sweat-clumped strands back from my forehead.
“Pen, what happened?” he asked.
My arm slid aside, and I peered up at him while taking another steadying breath.
He was still damp from the bath, and his skin was splotched red. He didn’t look sad, though, just… scrubbed.
I frowned and pulled away from him as I worked my way to sitting. “I don’t know anything, Kit,” I said, voice wavering. “And why didn’t you teach me? Did you think I couldn’t learn it? Is it because I’m a dunce?”
Kit’s dark eyes flickered with his blink. “A what? No, I—”
“I am a man, you know,” I insisted, spilling over with the words I’d bitten back for hours. “I’m not a child, and he… he’s not kind.”
“Who isn’t?” Kit asked, still perplexed.
“The new smith!” I exclaimed. The man I’d spent the day trapped with. My new… master. The thought made me squirm. “He’s not kind,” I repeated, “and he’s not… you.”
Kit’s face scrunched, his expression divided between confusion and the compassion he reserved only for me. His hand stretched toward me, but I withdrew further, hugging my arms around my middle and hunkering in.
“Did you show him your leatherworking?” Kit asked quietly. “You’ve come so far in such a short time. And you can manage the hammer and anvil—”
“With you!” I gave my head a hard shake. “You make me feel safe, and he makes me feel small. And stupid.”
Kit’s mouth opened, then shut again. Once, twice. Like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t find the words. Finally, he let out a long sigh. “You’re not stupid.”
Maybe he was tired of saying it. Tired of me. I wouldn’t blame him.
“Or a child,” I added, quieter now.
His gaze softened, and he nodded. “Or a child.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, chewing it for a moment before mumbling, “I don’t want to go back there. I took him pastries, and he didn’t eat them. Didn’t even let me stop for lunch.”
“You know you have to, though,” he said, not unkindly. “Go back.”
“I know.”
The anger was gone, burned out like the coals in the forge. All that was left was a dull ache. I moved closer to Kit, drawn by the warm, clean scent of his skin. I pressed in until his arms came around me without hesitation, soot and all.
He tucked me against him, one hand steady at my back while the other slipped into my hair. Fingers fussed through the mess of it like he couldn’t help himself.
“Missed lunch, though?” he hummed. “And no breakfast this morning?”
I shook my head against his chest. The emptiness was starting to make me feel hollow in places that had nothing to do with my stomach. “I’m starved,” I mumbled.
Kit crooked a finger under my chin and raised my head so I was looking at him.
His thumb brushed across my cheek, smearing away a streak of soot.
Then he bent and kissed the clean spot, right beside my eye.
“You wash up, and I’ll make dinner. We’ll have the pastries for dessert. I’m sure they’re lovely.”
I dragged myself upright and shuffled off toward the bedroom. My clothes were stiff and smelled of smoke and sweat, and I peeled them away with a grimace. From the doorway, I called, “They’re pecan, like the ones we picked together. I’ve had to smell them all afternoon.”
I poked my head out into the hall, squinting toward the sitting room. Kit was still there, half-slouched on the couch, eyes on me.
“How was your day?” I asked, more than a bit belatedly.
His mouth twisted a little at the corner, something private flickering through his expression. “Not quite as bad as yours,” he said. “I saw the Vessel today.”
That pulled me fully out into the hallway, morbid curiosity warring with my need to scrub the stench of smoke off my skin.
“What was it like?”
“Horrifying,” Kit said softly. “So much worse than anything I imagined.”
When I took a step toward him again, he held up a hand to stop me.
“But you need a bath, and I need to make dinner. I’ll tell you all about it after.”
I detoured back into our room for clean clothes before retreating into the bathroom.
The tinderbox for the boiler still glowed orange from Kit’s bath, so I didn’t need to wait for the water to heat.
And as I worked the pump and the tub filled, I wondered if I was better off not knowing more than Kit already told me.