Chapter 51
WAIT
SANTHE ROLLED A THICK MOUND of dough beneath her palms, curling the bulk of it toward her on the counter to create necessary tension. Beside her, one of the Porter children, Fay, dusted her own surface with flour.
“You’re doing quite well, Miss Santhe!” Fay complimented brightly.
Santhe wiped a hand across her brow, smearing white powder. “High praise from the baker’s daughter. You’ve done triple the loaves I have.”
Fay smiled, clear blue eyes crinkling deeply at the edges despite her youth.
“To be fair, I’m only the youngest daughter.
My elder sisters would have outpaced us both.
” She dragged another puffy round of dough over and shaped it with expert efficiency before powdering it with flour and nestling it into a basket. “It takes time and practice.”
Santhe settled herself onto a stool, content to watch Fay work.
Her tall, willowy frame moved with fluid grace, entirely at ease in the vast kitchen among monstrous bins of ground grain, piping ovens, and the permanent scent of baking bread.
They’d been at this for hours. Muscles that Santhe couldn’t even name ached from overuse.
“What about your younger brother? Penn. Is he as proficient a baker as your other siblings?”
Fay snorted and tossed the last boule of dough into a flour-dusted basket. She swiped her powdered hands on the front of her apron. “Not hardly. Though he’s plenty good at sneaking the finished loaves. No, sweet Penn fancies himself a warrior.”
As if summoned, the youngest Porter sibling—and the only boy—poked his head into the kitchen, a full head and shoulders taller than his sister.
All the Porter children had the same build and appearance: bright blue eyes, long, lanky frames, and a wealth of white-blond hair.
Beulah had given her four children their coloring.
Their father had bestowed the rest. “Have you seen ma?” Penn asked.
Fay leaned against the counter, one hand on her lean hip. “She’s still out.”
“Still? Why?”
“How should I know?” Fay replied. “She left hours ago. Conclave business.”
“What the hell is taking her so long?” he muttered.
Fay huffed in irritation. “Obviously, I can’t answer that Pennelton Porter.” Penn scowled at his sister’s use of his proper name. Fay spread her arms wide. “I’ve been here, with Miss Santhe, slaving over mother’s orders for tomorrow.”
Penn seemed to notice Santhe for the first time. He ducked his head in embarrassment for his pestering. “Hello, Miss Santhe, sorry ma’am.”
Santhe gave him a little wave and sipped her water.
“What’s amiss, Penn? Anything I can help with?
” Assisting the Porters with their seemingly endless chores, work, and worries was the least she could do for the room they’d graciously provided her.
Until she found reliable work, Santhe was living on a seriously fixed income.
Penn looked about to speak, then shook his head in resignation. He gave his sister one last narrowed glare and said, “Thanks for nothing, La-fay-ette,” before ducking out into the hall.
Fay rolled her eyes with an exasperation unique to quarreling siblings. “He is such a pain,” she complained, turning to scrape flour off the smooth wooden counter.
Santhe pushed up from her stool, memories of the brother she’d lost threatening. “I’ll see if I can learn what his issue is.”
“Good luck,” Fay huffed, oblivious to Santhe’s warring emotions. “There are many.”
Santhe found Penn descending the front stoop. Dusk had crept into the wood, its blue-hued shadows bleeding down from the sky beyond the shelter of trees. “Penn,” she called after him. “Wait.”
He turned, the worried crease between his pale brows smoothing with some effort.
Santhe patted her rose-colored apron, sending little white puffs of flour into the air. “Alright. Out with it.”
Penn hesitated.
“I may not be as fearsome as your mother, Penn, but if you’re in trouble, I know a guy. Bit of a recluse. Lives in a cabin outside of town.” She winked.
Penn’s already pale face leached of remaining color. “Then you don’t know. Shit.” His eyes rounded. “Sorry, please don’t tell my mother I cursed in front of you. Or my sisters.”
“Penn,” Santhe urged. “What’s wrong? What don’t I know?”
“It’s Kal.”
All levity fled Santhe’s expression. “What about Kal?”
“I walked past the Conclave’s conference hall and saw Kal’s horse tied outside. The big red one? There was a cart hitched behind him.” His throat bobbed. “A cart carrying bodies.”
“Bodies? Whose?”
He shook his head, one narrow shoulder lifting. “I was across the lot. But I watched Harless walk by and lift the cover before going inside.”
Santhe frowned. “Rask Harless? Kal’s friend?” The last she’d heard, Rask had left town, heading for Asteros and his sister.
“I don’t think they’re friendly anymore, Miss Santhe.”
A chill swept through the darkening forest on a stealthy breeze, raising the little hairs along Santhe’s bare forearms. “What makes you think that?”
Penn’s blue eyes were grave. “Because I stayed to watch the building. Forty minutes after Harless went inside, he came back out again with Lucien Cross. They had Kal and Miss Kitty in cuffs and skullcages.”
Santhe swore. This was a problem. This was a big fucking problem. “Do you think your mother had something to do with this?”
Defiance settled into Penn’s adolescent features. “No,” he said, firmly. “But she must have been there. She’ll know what happened.”
Santhe rolled her neck, the bones popping. “Come on,” she said, crossing the yard. Penn caught up with a few long strides. She regarded him as they hurried down the street. “Why come home? Why not go into the conference hall to find your mother?”
“I followed Lucien and Rask as far as the center road. They were heading for The Hollows. When I finally doubled back to the conference hall, all the lights had gone out, and the door was locked. I thought Ma had come home for the night.”
Kalevar Kaine, what kind of mess have you gotten yourself into now?
It took them half an hour to reach the hall.
The townsfolk had bedded down for the evening.
The earlier chilling breeze had worked into a frigid wind that cut through the trees, forcing people indoors.
Only the odd scout patrolled the streets in second form, their thicker pelts helping to insulate them from the biting cold.
Penn and Santhe huddled near the entryway to the Conclave’s conference hall. As Penn mentioned, all the interior lights had been extinguished, the expansive building casting an ominous shadow over the street.
Penn tried the door. “See? Locked.”
Santhe peered up at the second-floor windows. “You think Beulah is still inside?”
“Where else would she be?” Penn asked, suppressing a shiver. “Dad’s camped on Meress’s northern border, finishing a job. She’s never gone after dark when he’s away.”
“Unless she’s somehow caught up in whatever mess this is.”
The fierceness of Penn’s expression could be seen even in shadow. “When I was eleven, there was a girl at school who would pester me. My sisters said it was out of affection. I didn’t care. I called her a bothersome prat. She overheard me.”
Santhe glanced sidelong at him.
“My mother found out and marched me to the girl’s home before dinner to formally apologize in front of her parents.”
“That must have been embarrassing,” Santhe ventured, wondering where he was going with this tale.
“I was mortified,” Penn said seriously. “But that’s not the point.
The point is, my mother’s moral compass is fixed due north.
She doesn’t make exceptions for the people she loves.
It’s why she’s so respected in the community.
In the Conclave. Whatever has happened, she’ll be on the right side of it. ”
A deepening shadow drew Santhe’s attention to the upper level once more. Nothing moved. The windows remained dark. She could have sworn she saw—
The front door of the conference hall cracked. “Pennelton Demetrius Porter! What in the gods’ names are you doing out right now?”
A meaty hand shot forward and gripped the youngest Porter by the shirt front, dragging him inside. Santhe slipped in after him before the door could be shut in her face.
Weak candlelight flared to life, illuminating Beulah Porter’s severe, round face. Her furious eyes drifted from her son to Santhe. “Santhe? What’s the meaning of this? Dragging my youngest child out in the night—”
“I dragged her, Ma,” Penn insisted.
“He saw Lucien Cross and Rask Harless take Kalevar and Kitty away to The Hollows,” Santhe explained without preamble. “He saw the bodies Kal dragged in.”
Beulah muttered, her expression growing harsher.
“Cross is out of line,” she said. “He acted without the rest of the Conclave’s knowledge or consent.
I’m fairly certain he sent those Carrow boys into the woods after Kal and his lady, knowing Kal would react the way he did.
Though I can’t prove it.” She shook her head.
“I don’t know what to do. Saul is terribly ill.
I’m afraid of what Lucien is capable of without Saul’s voice to buffer his immoderation. ”
“Where is Saul now?” Santhe asked.
“Upstairs,” Beulah replied. “He’s too weak to travel home.
I called for Meress’s mender, but it’s been hours.
He must be occupied with another patient.
” Beulah loosed a weary sigh. “We’ve had city folk at the door at all hours inquiring after Saul.
It’s unusual for him to be indisposed; they want to know what’s amiss.
Stef and Vorak know of his condition, but I’d rather keep the worst of it from inciting more public speculation.
” Blond brows knitted together, their corners tensed.
“It’s why I locked the doors. I’m afraid to leave him. ”