chapter two
I GREET MAEVE WITH A stroke on her soft muzzle, and she greets me back with a gentle nudge.
“Saddle her for me,” I sign to the stable boy, avoiding eye contact as I do.
Only when he scurries away do I dare look back up.
I pinch my brows at the gentle snowflakes that continue drifting from the sky.
I wrap my cloak tighter around myself. The winter is lingering this year, and the daytime still has a bite to it.
“At least no one questions you when they don’t want to interact with you,” I whisper to Maeve as I wait for him to come back.
Maeve neighs and nudges her warm muzzle against my hand.
Lifting my veil, I give her a kiss on her nose. “You are a beauty, aren’t you?” I whisper. “Way too beautiful to live in this dreary city.”
No matter how much the minister preaches about the light of the Father, Bronich will forever be a city of darkness.
Even at this time of day, most of Bronich remains gloomy and desolate.
The surrounding mountains wrap the city in shadows, their imposing presence an impenetrable barrier between Bronich and the outside world.
I squint up at the darker spot high on the hillside: the entrance to the mountain pass.
Although the minister claims the Father protects us and that we’re safe here from the evil of the lands beyond, I’m worried that it will one day show up on our doorstep.
They say the monsters beyond the pass can smell human blood from miles away, their wolf senses as sharp as their fangs.
Some are said to be shape-shifters, able to take human form to deceive their prey.
I will never understand those foolish enough to ignore the minister’s warnings and tempt fate by crossing, when it’s well-known that those who do are never seen again.
I pull my gaze away from the pass. Anyone stupid enough to try that route is deserving of whatever demons are thrown upon them.
At the sound of footsteps, I lower my gaze again and step to the side so the boy can do his job. Once mounted, I grab hold of the reins with one hand while holding my cloak in place from the wind with the other. Giving Maeve a gentle squeeze with my legs, I nudge her forward.
“Let’s get into town, shall we?” I say to Maeve once the boy is out of earshot.
It doesn’t take long before the dark structures of the city proper come into view, blurred in a dense shroud of fog.
I raise my hood, seeking refuge from the snow that has now turned into a familiar drizzle, and shoo the crows as they make a grab for my satchel.
Their loud screeching rings in my ears—the scarcity caused by a prolonged winter seems to affect the ebony scavengers as much as the humans.
I take in the city through lowered lashes as I guide Maeve through the twisting alleys of Bronich.
The timber-framed buildings that make up most of Bronich all bear clear signs of decay, which makes them tilt precariously toward one another.
Breathing through my mouth, I do my best to avoid the odor of smoke and sewage.
It’s a far cry from the refreshing scent of pine that envelops Master Coperie’s land.
“Easy, girl,” I whisper, patting Maeve on her neck as a horse cart rattles down the cobblestone street, causing rats to scurry in every direction. I flinch as one is trampled, leaving a bloody mess in the middle of the street.
Still, amidst the filth and chaos, the people of Bronich go about their daily lives. Maids in plain dresses and errand boys in their distinct gray trousers and flat caps hurry past, hoping to make an iron penny or two.
I throw a couple at one of the many beggars lining the streets as I pass by.
I’ll need every penny for myself if I’m to buy my freedom, but there are those who need them more.
The number of homeless has more than doubled over the winter, and so has the number of thieves and pickpockets, by the looks of it.
The beggar grabs the coins with a quick hand and stores them away, but he doesn’t acknowledge me in any other way. I may as well not exist. I shake my head. If he weren’t in such need of coin, I doubt he would have touched them.
Arriving at the square, I pull Maeve to a halt.
Despite the dreary weather and scarce conditions, the town’s market buzzes with life.
The eleventh day of the week is always busy, and the eager cacophony from the vendors creates a contrasting atmosphere to the otherwise bleak state of the city.
I tie Maeve to a hitching post. Then, keeping my gaze down, I weave my way through the market square, the smell of smoke and sewage giving way to the aroma of freshly baked bread mixed with the earthy scent of sweat and mule manure.
Only when I reach the fountain at the heart of the square do I cast a cautious glance around.
There are few of us out. Given that most commoners feel uncomfortable in our presence, properties prefer to serve inside most of the time—warming their master’s bed, most likely.
I stare at the fountain, ignoring the wide berth people give me as they walk by.
Instead, I study the water, focusing on its mesmerizing display.
When a hand touches my shoulder, it’s all I can do to stifle a scream.
“Relax, it’s just me,” Emma signs, her eyes narrowing as she studies my startled expression. “You look awful.”
“Why, thank you,” I sign back, arching one eyebrow. “It was a late night . . .”
Her eyes widen at the implication. “You did it! Did you find out anything?” Her hands move fast. Going all the way to the northern hillside was riskier than my usual eavesdropping, and Em knew it.
Sharing the household of a master who likes to keep her close at night, Em lives and breathes for my exploration.
I cast a quick glance around. The familiar bustle of vendors vying for the attention of customers makes me wonder for a moment if I dreamed the entire episode.
I give her the tiniest of nods. “It’s . . . disturbing,” I sign, avoiding her gaze. It’s the only word I can think of.
“And?” Em raises her eyebrows, her eyes urging me to share my findings.
I chew my lip as I cast another glance around the market; the metallic tang of blood, thick and coppery, fills my mouth, causing a series of images from last night to rush through my mind: the blood-soaked floor; the anguished screams of the young mother as she desperately clawed at the minister, pleading for her baby; and the lifeless infant, held limply in the minister’s arms. My knees buckle at the vivid imagery, and I grab hold of Em who steadies me, her brow furrowed in concern.
Straightening up, I fight back the sudden nausea. “Sorry,” I sign.
She shakes her head—don't apologize. “What did you see?”
I’m about to reply when I notice two of the local town ladies stopping at a nearby booth. Having served them several times in Master Coperie’s drawing room, I recognize them as the doctor’s wife and the wife of one of the wealthier merchants, Master Killson.
“How can I help you, my ladies?” the elderly farm lady behind the booth says in greeting. “Are you looking for a warm loaf of bread or some fresh milk, perhaps?” She keeps her gaze low, the same way we do, as is appropriate for mudlings, but the two women don’t acknowledge her presence at all.
“Fetch me a dozen eggs, two loaves, and four bottles of milk,” the merchant’s wife instructs her maid in a curt tone.
“Inspect everything meticulously, and be sure to choose only the finest-quality items. Master Killson expects nothing less.” She glances at the booth with a critical gaze before dismissing her maid with a slight turn of her back, resuming her conversation with her friend.
Lowering her voice conspiratorially, the merchant’s wife leans closer to her friend. “Did you hear there will be another burning tomorrow?”
I pull Em around, signaling for her to pay attention. If there’s something we excel at after spending years as property, it’s picking up information without being noticed.
“And a whipping.” Her voice is smug. “My husband informed me this morning that the minister discovered proof last night that young Mrs. Willox is indeed a witch, and her husband will be whipped for associating with her—as is appropriate, of course.”
The other woman—the doctor’s wife—nods her consent.
“I am not surprised. Dr. Cole saw her once during her pregnancy, and I swear on the Almighty Father, there was just something off about her.” Clearly contemplating the consequences of having interacted with a witch, she taps her pursed lips with a gloved finger, a slight frown ruining her otherwise doll-like features.
“You know, she used to help around our house,” the merchant’s wife confesses with a shudder.
“Which makes it a bit of an inconvenience for us now, of course”—her lips form a slight pout—“but I am sure I can get my hands on a better maid. No one wants a witch in their home, after all.” She practically spits the word “witch.”
They both nod, agreeing.
The two ladies are dressed perfectly, as per the minister’s standards.
Their dark brown linen dresses are buttoned all the way up to their chins, and not a single strand of hair is out of place under their coifs.
They wear matching bonnets on top with wide brims that shade their faces—the only visible part of their body.
The minister has made it explicitly clear that the Father does not approve of such frivolities as letting your hair be visible in public—there should, after all, be no distractions from your devotion to Him. Alas, unless you have a death wish, you do not leave your hair hanging loose.
I sigh. Even what we wear is shadow and darkness. To outshine the Father is the greatest sin of all—everyone knows that—but does that have to mean we should all become walking shadows? No light, no colors. Surely the Father is not so dim that a splash of color will ruin his presence.