Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
R iley is asleep in a chair, and Bitty and Beans are outside, huddled together under a blanket, pointing at the stars. The stars. I hadn’t realized it was so late. It makes me a little sad to think of leaving in the morning. Bitty and Beans’ casual affection catches me off guard. Not that Beans doesn’t seem the type, in fact, something about him screamed paternal even before I’d seen him with Bitty. But his big hulking mass and deep voice are at odds with the small, whispered giggles and relaxed cuddling.
“Would you like a cup of tea, my sweet?” asks a hushed voice.
“That would be lovely, uh, sorry, I don’t actually know your name?”
“You can call me Mama Beryl, or just Mama,” she says, winking at me and giving my arm a squeeze.
When we’re both settled on the opposite ends of a sofa—Riley softly snoring, Bitty and Beans’ whispers drifting in, Tovi laughing with Frankie while she sews—we sigh in unison. The slight crackle of the fire, the only light in the room, makes it all very…homely. Especially with a hot cup of tea in my hands.
“Thank you for opening your home to me,” I say quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace.
“Oh child, you are welcome here anytime. I mean it, if you’re ever in trouble, you come here.” Mama is so insistent and waits for me to agree, so I nod.
“Can I ask how you found Beans, or if he found you?”
Mama smiles ruefully, setting her cup aside so she can speak animatedly with her hands. “I knew when his coming-of-age season would be, so we waited and waited to see the announcement, but it never came. His father and I thought he must have died. Of course, we didn’t know what he looked like or what his name was, but we attended every single sale of a Nemorisborn man.
“Then one day, during a market while Frankie was selling her leatherwork, we see him. He was carrying a small Laguzborn Patron in his arms. The kid wouldn’t let go of him as he ambled about the markets buying different wares.”
Mama wipes a tear on her sleeve and reaches for my hand to hold it. I contemplate snatching it away but…I don’t. Her hand is soft, and I let her hold it as she continues her story.
“Frankie saw him first, and she went as white as a ghost, her wild orange hair looking like gold on fire. When I finally see what she’s looking at, it’s a man with the exact same hair, the exact same features, but as tall as their father. I sobbed, and so did Frankie. We stood there watching him move about with little Bitty clinging to him.
“We were whispering to ourselves that it’s him and how much he looks like Frankie and their father when Bitty’s head pops up and looks directly at us.” She laughs, opening her eyes wide and shaking her head.
“Bitty heard you!” I hiss with excitement .
“Yes, but at the time, and actually for many more revolutions, we didn’t know that their Gift was hearing!” Mama says with a good squeeze to my hand, continuing. “Bitty somehow communicated to Crissy to be let down and then tugged him to us. His face when he saw us…He knew straight away, just as we did.” I hold back my smile at Mama’s nickname for Beans.
“We informed Queen Neo, and she submitted a bid for him, angered that he was never announced despite his Junky status. Both he and Bitty moved in here. Crissy joined the army after a couple of revs, while Frankie and I helped to raise Bitty. Crissy only came home for a few days each moon. The only time Bitty spoke in those first few revs was when he came home. It was a bittersweet moment when Bitty went back to Osraed as a fully-fledged young Patron. Our queen promised that a deal would be made for them at their coming-of-age. To return home to us.”
It’s such a beautiful story, but I can feel myself getting sleepy. The side of my head rests on the back of the sofa, my eyes heavy, and I’m toasty warm.
“Come on. Let’s get you to bed, child.” Mama drags me up, shows me where I can wash, and says she will leave some fresh bedding out for me. I thank her and do as I’m told.
Crawling into bed, my eyes are barely open. Tovi is already out cold, and Riley is still asleep in the sitting room. I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow.
A dip in the bed startles me awake, and I sit up, reaching for the weapons I’m no longer wearing around my wrists. But it’s only Riley, crawling into my bed, drunk.
“Riley, this isn’t your bed. ”
He’s sitting on the end of the bed and turns to look at me, like really look at me. He reaches toward my face but falls forward because I’m too far away. Slumping along my legs with a weird, breathless chuckle.
“You have a—mmn…face,” he slurs.
“Yes Riley, I have a face. Now get out of my bed.”
Rolling onto his back, head now in my lap, he looks up at me. He reaches out and twirls a piece of my hair around his fingers. I’m staring down at him frozen, confused, and slightly too warm. The swirling flutter of rage begins to beat around my rib cage telling me to kick him off. He drops his hand, humming slightly, before closing his eyes.
And he’s asleep instantly. In my lap. I try to shove him off to no avail. Managing to at least get out from under him, I take my pillow and climb into his bed, throwing his pillow back at him. He doesn’t even flinch.
It turns out we need another day. We have to replenish our supplies and reorganize ourselves to travel on foot. I currently don’t have any boots because Frankie is modifying them, so I stay behind with her and Mama while the others go to a nearby market.
The three of us have breakfast together, a delicious meal of oats and fresh pink currants. Simple yet divine, especially with a hot cup of birch leaf tea. We sit in companionable silence, eating and drinking as the fog rolls over the mountain ranges and through the dense forest. I would have liked to have seen one of the black sand beaches, but they’re too far west from here. Next time, I hope.
The rest of the day is spent being fitted for all of Frankie’s leather creations and helping Mama to cook and bake. The women cackle constantly, clearly enjoying each other’s company. Riley was right—I’m being mothered and smothered and yet…I don’t hate it. Their forced affections set my teeth on edge and rage uncoils in warning, but otherwise, it doesn’t feel…wrong.
They both have the same dark green eyes as Beans, so dark that it's almost hard to distinguish between iris and pupil. Also, like Beans, they’re covered head to toe in freckles on slightly pink skin. If Beans is in his early forties, it means Frankie must be in her mid to late forties. Mama must be in her sixties, though she looks and moves as if she’s still her daughter’s age.
Lunch is smoked mutton sandwiches—from the same sheep as yesterday—with a thick spread of butter on dark bread. And apricots. I almost fall over when Mama asks if I want to pick the apricots. I eat six straight from the tree and then sit down at the base to eat one more while truly savoring it. Apricots are my favorite fruit, and I haven’t had one for so many revolutions. I’m not even sure why.
I set the basket of apricots on the kitchen table for Mama just as Frankie calls me into her sewing room. On top of her table sits a pile of leather and my interest is immediately piqued.
“Here, try these on,” Frankie says with not a small amount of childlike excitement, handing me some new boots, recycled from my old pair. They fit comfortably, tying up to the middle of my calf. It means rearranging the way I carry the knives strapped to my ankles, but it’s worth it.
Next is a rogue underbust corset, laced up in the front for ease with small pauldrons on the shoulder straps. The leather is soft and comfortable and—despite the tightness—breathable. The best part is that all of the hidden sheathes and pockets for my throwing knives are much more accessible now.
Lastly, Frankie grabs a strange pouch that supposedly connects to the straps of the corset. Looking at it, I don’t comprehend its function. It’s thin and soft, with a divider lengthways through it, creating two pockets. A flap covers the center portion leaving the edges open. She turns me around and shows me where the attachments are hidden under the pauldrons. It’s comfortable, and I can barely feel it.
Until she sits something heavy into it.
“Reach both your hands back over your shoulders,” Frankie instructs, with excitement coloring her voice.
I reach back, and my hands hit the distinct wooden handles of my hatchets. Gripping on to one in each hand, I lift them up and out with ease. The flap moves out of the way so the hatchets don’t clang together, and both are quickly in my hands and ready to fight.
“We have a sturdy tree outside…” Frankie says, with a mischievous glint in her eyes as she waggles her eyebrows in suggestion.
“Yes, please!” I squeak, as I spin on my heels. Frankie’s chuckle follows me as I sprint outside.
I practice, over and over. Pulling them out faster, while running, standing, or only one-handed. I almost scream when, during a forward flip, I pull them out of the pocket and lodge one firmly into the tree I was aiming at. Frankie claps for me and blows me a double-handed kiss before leaving me to play with my new toys alone.
Eventually going inside, I find Frankie back in her sewing room.
“Thank you. Thank you endlessly. I don’t think I can truly express my gratitude for this. How can I repay you?” I ask.
“Your strap patterns are innovative Mika. If you’re sure I can have them, I’d love to release a new line of products named after you, based on your designs. ”
“They’re all yours!” I beam. I’d give her a thousand strap designs for this.
“So…I wasn’t finished…” Frankie says cryptically. I look at her and then at the pieces of leather in her hands, once again not comprehending. “Pull out your hatchets and I’ll show you.”
I place both weapons on the bench beside her. She grabs one piece of the leather and slides it over the dangerously sharp edge of one hatchet, and then over the butt, snapping it closed with a small clasp. Guards. They’re leather guards. I pick up the newly guarded hatchet, shaking it about, swinging it, and hitting it into myself gently. It’ll still hurt, and I’ll have to temper my blows, but now I’ll be able to spar without mortally wounding anyone or myself.
It’s almost too much. Frankie is watching with pride written all over her face at her work, as she should. But I don’t understand why all this effort. For me.
“Why?” I ask her, trying to swallow the emotions bubbling up that I don’t understand.
“Why not, Mika?” is all she says before kissing me on the forehead and walking out the door, yelling, “You’re welcome!”
So much forced affection. Yet it might just be the best day I’ve had in revolutions. I can’t wipe the smile off my face.
Just as I decide to head inside, the gang arrives back from their trip to the market.
“Is that big smile for me, or my package?” Riley asks me from behind his armload, a smirk on his lightly freckled face. I drop my smile and roll my eyes dramatically, putting my hands out toward Bitty to relieve them of some of their haul.
I help Mama prepare dinner again, and afterward, she tells me wild stories of Frankie as a kid while I help with the dishes. When everyone else has gone to sleep, Mama tells me how her husband died in a tragic logging accident that devastated the community. Fortunately, it was a couple of revs after they reunited with Beans, so they were able to have some time together.
She forces me to bed, yet again, and I can see why everyone calls her Mama. I sleep spooning my guarded hatchets, just because I can. I am not plagued by nightmares, and Riley stays in his own bed.
In the morning, Tovi is yanking on my foot asking if I’m washing my hair today since it’s our last morning here. Which, of course, I am. What I didn’t realize, was that Mama washes everyone’s hair. All of us. One after the other. With a delicious honey-smelling soap. Bitty gets their undercut tidied up before getting their hair washed too. Beans’ head is shaved last, along with a tidy-up of his beard and mustache.
I look at Riley in wonder and confusion while we towel our hair, and he simply shrugs his shoulders with a smirk, mouthing, “I told you so.” He tries to hold my eye for far too long, and I look away not wanting it to reach an abhorrent peak. Plus, I can’t read him. At all.
He’s freshly shaven, highlighting the strong jaw on that square face of his. Chiseled. What a cliché way to describe someone, but that’s what he is. Jaw, nose, arms…I wonder if the rest of his body matches, having not yet seen him undressed. Yet? Thinking of him undressed sends my rage into a flurry which propels me to standing, earning myself a quizzical look from Riley. Great. The memory of me poking my tongue out at him bubbles up uninvited, and I leave the room for fear of further embarrassing myself.
Tovi and I sit in the sun to let the wind and warmth finish drying our hair. She’s stiff and not one for conversing with me, but I try my luck anyway. “What’s your Gift? Can I know?”
I assume it’s something impressive—a Gifted fighter, fast runner, or something equally important—that would make Nemoris bid in for her purchase and for her to join this mission to save the princess.
But to my surprise, she says, “Object empathy.”
“Object empathy?” I repeat back to her in confusion, like it’s one of the old languages I never learned.
“People leave feelings on objects. I can feel what the last person to touch an object felt.”
My mouth gapes open. I pick up a rock and hand it to her.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a carnival trick, and I don’t need object empathy to know you’re surprised and curious.” She doesn’t even take the rock, before getting up to leave me by myself. I’m an idiot. This is what I get for being a recluse. Though what kind of assassin would I have been if I had wonderful people skills?
I give Mama most of my jars of ferments and pastes to use, unable to take them with me when I’m reducing down to one bag. Thankfully, I’m able to leave my other bag here with the rest of my belongings. In return, Mama hands me two little bags: one has a heap of dried apricots, and the other contains fresh ones.
“Why is Mika getting gifts?” Riley complains, peeking in the bag and stealing an apricot as Mama smacks his hand away.
Tovi and Bitty round the corner in a jumble of words, asking about gifts and who’s getting them. Mama threatens them with a spoon, and they run out squealing. Like children.
“Thank you, and Frankie ,” I raise my voice so she can hear from her hiding place in the pantry. “For all your hospitality and your generous gifts. This has been some of the…It’s been so lovely. Thank you.” I struggle to finish.
Frankie comes out and pulls me and Mama into a group hug where I’m the meat in the sandwich. “Is this a bad time to point out how much I hate being touched?” I squeak out.
They laugh and hug me tighter.
And I let them.