chapter two #2
The blasphemous thought immediately makes me tap my forehead with my index and middle finger. At least I don’t have to wear that stupid hat. They look more than a little inconvenient, with the large brim preventing the ladies from looking left and right without turning their heads.
“Do you not fear that she has left curses in your home?” Mrs. Cole asks, her voice filled with unease. Then, with a pointed look at the other lady, she adds, “You simply have to let the minister do a blessing of your home, removing any lingering evil.”
“Oh, I will,” Mrs. Killson says as she taps her forehead, right above the center of her eyebrows.
Mrs. Cole immediately does the same, eager to ward off whatever evil she fears might be listening.
“Thank the Father the minister is so dedicated in his pursuit of the witches,” Mrs. Killson continues. Her expression shifts to one of contemplation, then brightens as she enthusiastically adds, “There will be tea and cake at our house after the burning. Will you be there?”
Although I shouldn’t be surprised, I flinch at her cheerful invitation. How anyone celebrates a burning is beyond me.
“But of course,” Mrs. Cole replies with an equal enthusiasm that leaves my spine tingling with unease. “We would not want to miss such an event. We wholeheartedly support the minister’s efforts to clear the evil out of this city.”
Em gives me a nudge, and warmth creeps up my cheeks as I realize I’ve been staring. Quick to lower my gaze, I feign the perfect blend of submissive indifference appropriate for properties, praying to avoid the obvious: that I have been eavesdropping on their conversation.
“It’s unbelievable how properties misbehave these days,” Mrs. Cole says as she pulls her friend along, the maid—carrying the heavy box of groceries—trailing behind.
“I, for one, think we should get rid of them all. I would never allow one in our house,” she scoffs.
“We all know what they are mainly used for.”
They both tap their forehead again, as if just talking about it will taint their souls.
“How anyone would want that ugly one is beyond me,” Mrs. Killson answers, glancing back over her shoulder at me, and it takes all my practiced discipline to not hurl a rock after them as they leave.
The expected submissiveness of a property has always been hard for me, but recently, it’s become almost unbearable. One might assume I’d improve with age, yet the opposite has occurred. Biting my tongue, I turn my back on them.
“Did you hear that?” I sign toward Em, who shakes her head. “Another burning.” I keep my hands out of the view of bystanders as I continue. “The woman I saw last night.”
She draws back. “You went to spy on a witch?”
I scan the square again. Amidst the usual sounds of bargaining maids and calling vendors, a handful of children are engaged in a game of catch. Everything seems so . . . normal.
“I . . . I don’t know,” I sign. It’s the truth, after all.
Was she?
“Did you go or did you not?” Em signs before crossing her arms. That defensive posture is new. The old Emma would’ve leaned closer, eyes bright with curiosity, eager for every detail.
I rub my temples in a futile hope to ease the incoming headache and close my eyes as I sort through the information.
Does Mrs. Willox deserve to be burned as a witch?
Maybe. On the other hand, I, too, will be burned if I don’t bleed soon, and I might be many things, but I am not a witch, and that means the minister isn’t always right.
What I do know is that I saw her give birth to what the minister called not human, but that creature is dead, so why can’t that be the end of it?
Putting two and two together, I can only assume that the reason for killing some of the prostitutes’ babies is that they give birth to these so-called moonborn creatures too.
However, they never burn those women. The once-pregnant prostitutes always come back to continue their trade, although with a distinctly glazed-over expression on their faces, as if they’re no longer present in their bodies. Not that their customers seem to care.
Em pierces me with a questioning gaze, eyebrows raised in a silent nudge to go on.
I pause for a second, gathering my thoughts, then tell her as fast as my hands can move, “If she’s a witch or not, I honestly don’t know, but I witnessed Mrs. Willox give birth to something that looked like a human baby but that the minister claimed was a creature not of this world.”
A hand flies up to cover her mouth. “The minister was in Mr. Willox’s home? In the middle of the night?” she signs.
I nod. “He said it was moonborn.” I finger-spell the strange word since I don't know the sign. “And that it was evil . . .” I stare at her. “Do you know what a m-o-o-n is?”
She shakes her head.
“Right after the baby was born, he intervened, snatching the baby away, and then . . . he . . . snapped its neck.” I cringe at the memory of the lifeless infant.
“Mrs. Willox completely lost control, clawing at him and screaming . . .” Em’s face is losing its color as I sign.
“She accused him of being a murderer . . . But if it was some kind of creature, was he not justified in killing it?”
Face ashen, she nods slowly, lips pressed into a thin line.
“There is more . . .” I raise my eyebrows, silently questioning if she wants to know. We’re both aware that having too much knowledge is far more dangerous than being clueless.
She hesitates for the tiniest of moments before gesturing for me to proceed, and I don’t blame her.
“The minister was followed by this tall, shadowy figure that sent shivers down my spine . . . And the shadow did something to Mr. and Mrs. Willox. They passed out like two sacks of potatoes.”
Em’s face, previously pale, is now void of any color. She signs a word I don't know—a gesture that somehow layers her hand in shadows. She immediately shakes her hand, then whispers, “The umbra.” Her voice is so low I can barely make out the words. “What have you gotten yourself into, La??”
“What have I gotten myself into?” I stare at her in disbelief. “You wanted to know as much as I did!” My hand movements are sharp and angry, although I’m well aware Em is rightfully concerned. Information that people will pay money for is rarely harmless.
I soften my expression, stating what is on both our minds. “This information can be worth enough for both of us to buy our freedom, Em,” I sign.
She stares at me for a long moment before she shakes her head.
“No,” she signs. “I don’t want anything to do with this.”
There’s nothing I can do to hide my surprised expression. “You don’t want your freedom?”
“I . . .” She looks away. “He’s different.”
“Who’s different?” I frown. “Your master?” I grab her arm, forcing her to meet my gaze. “Don’t be a fool, Em. You’re just another property.”
She tenses, though she remains silent.
“Well, at least tell me what this umbra is. You clearly know.” There’s a painful tightening in my chest as I realize she’s known about the umbra all this time and never shared it with me.
Her veil flutters as she lets out a heavy sigh.
“They . . . They live in the shadows.” Her hand gestures are reluctant.
“It’s said they have eyes and ears everywhere.
” Her gaze darts around the square, as if one of them might jump at us this very moment.
“I witnessed a conversation between Master and an administrator once, and from what I understood, they are the eyes and ears of the Father himself. That’s how the minister is always aware of every single incident that displeases Him.
” Em’s hands are visibly shaking now. “If anyone—anyone—finds out, you will be the next to burn.”
I seize her sleeve as she turns to go. “You won’t tell anyone, right?” I whisper, not bothering to sign. “Right?” I say again, a little louder, when she doesn’t answer.
A look of pity crosses her face. “I’m sorry, La?, but you’re on your own.” She shakes herself loose of my grip and sets off before I have time to get in another word.
I stare at her back, mouth agape, as she races down the street as fast as her feet will allow her without running.
We were inseparable growing up at the shelter together, and we found comfort in each other as we struggled to navigate our new lives after being sold as properties.
Lately, though, things have been different.
I shake my head; I have other things to worry about than a moody Em.
My mind drifts to the umbra and how its tendrils touched me.
Did it know it was me who was there? I doubt it could have distinguished my features in the darkness outside—not unless the creature has impeccable night vision—but maybe its touch marked me somehow.
And then there’s the question of selling this information or not.
Can I afford not to sell it? No, I decide.
Not this close to turning twenty-one. I may burn either way, but doing nothing makes it certain.
Mrs. Cooker may pretend to still have hope, but mine is long gone.
Weaving my way back through the crowd, I decide to bring it to Llyr, as usual.