7

After a breakfast of brown bread, cheese, and boiled potatoes, I walk to Gery’s, ready to earn twelve geld doing farm work.

When I arrive, Gery, a bone-thin man with a hound dog face and strong hands, stands on the other side of his barn with a soiled handkerchief held to his mouth. Between coughing fits, he nods to the cow. “Her name’s Molly.” He points to the milking pail and then a bag of oats for his horses.

“When you’re done with all that.” He gestures toward a pile of newly shorn sheep wool. “Bag that up for the market.” Once he assigns me these tasks, Gery shuffles back to his house and to his wife, who’s still too ill to leave her bed.

I dump oats in the trough for the horses. “Enjoy, lovelies,” I say.

That was easy.

There’s a stool near the door, and I set it on the right side of the cow. “I have no idea how to do this,” I tell Molly, stroking her bangs. “You’re gonna have to take the lead.”

Molly blinks her big black cow eyes at me and snuffles. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was laughing at me.

I perch on the stool and rub my hands together to warm them. Reaching for the udder, I whisper, “I know we just met, darling, and I’m sorry about this. Just don’t kick me, okay?”

Her tail flicks, and she snuffles again—this time, a sigh.

I want a cow. Maybe I already have a cow and maybe I already have my own farm back where I’m from. Maybe I was charged with tending the livestock in our group.

And now for my last farm chore: bagging newly shorn wool into burlap sacks. The wool makes my hands itch. I liked tending to Molly much better.

Before I leave, Farmer Gery makes me turn out the pockets of my skirt. “I hear your kind likes to steal.” He tosses me my pay from the other side of the barn.

I catch it in my swollen hand.

One geld.

Are you fucking kidding me?

The daystar burns high in the sky by the time I leave Gery’s. The baking hard, dirt-packed roads haven’t softened even after the water from yesterday’s rain. In such bright light, Maford looks faded, like a memory disappearing moment by moment. The market is gone this morning—the wanderweavers must have packed up overnight and moved on to the next village.

The few townspeople out in this heat give me space, their hands trembling and their eyes filled with fear, preferring to take the long way around instead of walking beside me.

I search the sparse crowds for the tawny-skinned woman with the silver glow. She’s the only person, other than Jadon, who has talked to me with decency. I haven’t asked Jadon or Olivia about her, remembering Olivia’s warning about those who may use magic. She was so frightened, I didn’t want her to even think about another person using magic in town.

Still, I hope to see that woman again. Maybe she knows about Chesterby and Devour, the nomads who worship Kaivara, and people with hair the colors of mulberry and cinnamon.

“You there!” a man shouts. “Blue-dress stranger!” He stands in the shop doorway a few doors down, glowing amber like everyone else. He beckons me over. “You the one who has to pay a fine?”

I look across the way. There’s the school. This must be the candle shop. Still, I hesitate before saying, “Yes sir. I’m supposed to help you today.”

“Fine,” he mutters. “Follow me.”

I pause in my step, angry heat blooming on the back of my neck. Eleven geld , I remind myself. After taking a deep breath, I follow the man into a shop filled with candles and beeswax. But we don’t pause here. No, he leads me down a dark corridor and back out to a slowly dying garden of violets and goldenrod, foxglove and lavender.

Before the drought, this garden with all its color would’ve dropped me to my knees. Now, though, my gasp is not that of delight but regret. The garden and its five straw baskets buzz with fat bees that bumble from withering blossom to dead blossom.

In natural light, I see that the candlemaker’s an older man, and his face is misshapen and pink. “Bee stings,” he mutters, catching me staring. “Gotta admit: it’s nice to have someone else for these maggots to gape at.”

I surprise myself with a laugh. “Glad to be of service.”

“You are as lovely as they say,” he offers, his head bowed.

I stare at him. “Lovely as who says?” I’ve heard not one nice word outside of the Ealdrehrts’ cottage directed my way, spoken or thought. Is he just being agreeable?

His smile falters, his blush deepens, and he clears his throat. “Well, this is where all the magic happens.” He pauses, looking even more flustered. “Not magic-magic, I mean—”

I raise my hand and smile. “No need to explain. I understand your meaning.”

“Ever do any of this before?” he asks. “Beekeeping? Candle-making?”

No clue. So I shake my head. “But I’m eager to learn.”

“I’ve been Maford’s candlemaker all my life. My gardens used to spread all the way back there.” He points to the tree line of the forest. “But creatures kept knocking over the hives and stealing the honey. So I built this fence.” Tall wooden planks have been erected around the backyard. Iron spikes travel across the top of the barriers.

I shiver, thinking about the kind of creatures that would need to be kept out with spikes. “How can I help you today?” I ask. “Olivia told me—”

He flicks his hand. “I don’t care what Olivia says. I need you to help me dunk wicks into the melted beeswax. I’ll offer you two geld every four candles. You do the math.”

Twelve candles for six geld.

“Doesn’t seem like a lot of candles,” I say, shrugging. “Beware: I’ve never done this.”

He sets up two stools on either side of a campfire. A big metal pot sits atop hot stones over the fire.

I sit on one of the stools while he fusses with the hives. “You’re lucky to work with these bees,” I say. “I love honey. There’s no better taste in the realm.” Not a recalled memory—just common sense.

“This isn’t about the honey.” He reaches beneath one of the hives. “This is what I need.” He lifts the wax sheet he just harvested and trundles over to a small table with wood plates. “What’s your name, young one?”

I dip my head out of respect. “Kai, sir. And you are?”

“Jamart.” He presses the wax sheet beneath the wood plates. Honey drips from the plates and into a tub beneath the stand. He then takes the pressed wax and washes it in another tub until it’s as gold as the honey.

“Wax.” He holds up the clean flat sheet. “ That’s the treasure, Kai. Wax makes candles. Everybody needs candles. In their houses, in their churches, in their stores. Healers like Freyney need it for medicines. Coating the throat and covering sores. The rich folk with important business to do. They mix it up with resin and make seals to close their fancy documents.”

He scratches at a fresh, red sting on his neck. “I should be one of those rich folk, to tell you the truth. But my bees are dying. There’s no water. Bad air. Dying flowers. This town, it’s killing the bees.” He pushes out a breath, then says, “Let’s get to it, then, while we can.”

Candle-making is quiet work. Jamart doesn’t speak as we suspend the dripping wicks from sticks across buckets.

“Any family?” I ask. “It’s so quiet here. Other than the bees, of course.”

“No,” he says. “Wife’s passed. My daughter, Lively… She’s gone. Not dead. Just… She got in some trouble and… She’s in the jail down the way.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” A pit opens in my stomach as I remember the conditions of that horrible place. No one deserves to be imprisoned there, no matter what they did. “May I ask what happened?”

He stares at the bubbling wax. “She took down the colure that used to hang on my front door.”

Olivia’s fear at the mention of magic and her warnings echo in my mind.

“That’s horrible,” I whisper. “The leaders of this town should be driven out.”

“Don’t say that,” Jamart says quickly, eyes nervously skipping around the garden. “We’re all doing the best we can.”

I can’t agree with him, but I understand his need to change the subject. I don’t want my words bringing even more trouble to him or his family.

The buzzing grows louder as more bees dip in and out of the hives and bumble from foxglove to lavender.

“I think every bee in Maford is here,” I say, grinning, trying to lighten the mood.

Jamart laughs. “Of course they are! They want to meet our guest.”

I blush and wave my hand in small circles. “Hello, hive. Such an honor to meet the makers of my favorite thing in this realm and the next.” I cast my gaze around the garden that used to be so abundant and vibrant. “You don’t worry that your neighbors or bandits may take the hives and wax and everything else?”

The candlemaker studies his workshop, his cheer diminishing. “I think about it almost every day.”

I peer at the bubbling cauldron, the drying candles, the golden sheets of wax. “This may not mean much, but I wish you protection and peace, Jamart. This is a lovely place of respite, at least for me, which sounds a little selfish but…” I sweep my hand— this town is horrible . “I wish to come back to your shop so I hope that it will never be harmed or looted.”

Jamart’s eyes glisten with tears. “Thank you,” he whispers. “I’ve forgotten natural kindness, and your blessing reminds me that it still exists. Your presence brings me hope.”

I force myself to smile. “I’m just here, sir. Making candles. Enjoying your company.”

“It is in your nature to be kind,” he says.

“Sure,” I say, chuckling, “but I’m just…” I shrug, confused. I haven’t gone out of my way to be cheerful, to be respectful. I am who I am. But I’m glad Jamart sees beyond my hair and my height, what I am or where I’m from.

“You’re just being yourself.” He smiles as he takes another wax plate from the last hive.

I suppose I am, and now, I have more information about who I am. I’m kind, cheerful, someone who brings peace to someone like Jamart. I like that. And I like him, and I want to know more about him. As we work, I can’t help but dip in and out of his head, a butterfly fluttering the fields. His thoughts are simple: “bees, wax, candles…”

And then his thoughts turn to…

“Oh Guardian, gentle Lady of the Verdant Realm, hear the humble plea of Thy devoted servant seeking the grace of Your divine touch. Coax life from the earth and cast Thy benevolent gaze upon my humble hives. Let their honey flow like liquid sunlight radiating the warmth of Your divine favor.”

What a lovely prayer from such an uncomplicated man.

A thought strikes me like a spark in the dark, but I wait for him to finish his prayer to this Guardian, this gentle Lady of the Verdant Realm.

“I have an idea,” I say. “What if you add flower petals to the melted wax? That way, there’s scent, like lavender, for example, as the candles burn?”

His eyes light up, and he hustles over to his garden. A moment later, he brings back sprigs of lavender, crushing them before dropping them into the cauldron of wax. “If this works—”

“It will work. If not, there’s no risk in trying.”

He takes a whiff of the lavender warming in the pot. “People may even pay a little bit more for these. If it works—”

“Stop saying ‘if,’” I say, laughing. “Not only will your candles smell nice, but they’ll be beautiful to behold. Your customers won’t know how you’ve done it. They’ll call you genius.”

“And I will give all the glory to you,” he says.

“Just give me a free candle.” I lower a wick into the melted wax. “Soon, word will spread that the candlemaker in Maford has breathed new life into candles. You’ll make a lot of geld.”

“You answered my prayers.” His mouth tightens, and his lips quiver. Tears brighten in his eyes but never fall.

I help him make these new candles, smiling as the aroma of lavender wafts around us. I’m sad once we’ve finished. My time with Jamart is over, and I must move on to my next task.

“I should go,” I say. “I’m to stop by the church to polish candelabras and pews.”

“You?” he asks, eyebrows scrunched.

“Me,” I say. “I’m happy to report that my time here has been the most pleasant since arriving in Maford.”

Jamart’s smile is as bright as his honey as he leads me back down the corridor, stopping in the sitting room. “Almost forgot,” he says, holding up a finger. “Please give me a moment.” He rushes to the pantry.

I wander the dim space. Something in the corner of the room catches my eye. It’s hard to see at first, but as I slip closer, I find that it’s an altar: a wood carving of a woman’s face, her arms full of blooms, her hair abundant and represented by squiggly grooves cut into the wood. Fresh flowers from the garden have been arranged around the icon as well as burning fat candles.

This is one of the altars Olivia mentioned.

A fullness, something like frothy milk or new cream, swells from my feet to my head. Such care has been taken with creating and tending this shrine. Unlike the displays of colures nailed, worn, and thrust upon others like knives, I feel devotion rippling through Jamart’s display. After hearing his prayer, I sense sincerity in his belief and in his love for this deity. Delight flutters through me, a moth slipping from one light to the next.

“For you,” Jamart says, back by my side. Head bowed, he hands me a small pouch.

Inside: a jar of golden honey, a block of yellow beeswax, and eight geld.

Rattled, I shake my head and offer back two geld. “This is too much. I can’t possibly—”

“No, I won’t hear of it.” He leads me to the front door. “Thank you, kind lady. You’ve blessed me today. The wax and the blooms—I would never have thought of that.” The irritation from the bee stings on his neck and face has waned some. His skin appears less inflamed, his glow a flickering, lightening amber. Good company and quiet can be healing, I’m sure. My own stings from Maford’s citizens have healed some, too.

I leave Jamart’s home, my cheeks strained from my smile. Maybe, in my old age, I will also make scented candles from my own beehives. A girl can dream, can’t she?

After speaking with Jamart, I can’t bring myself to go to the church. Instead, I find myself standing before the jailhouse. The amber glow of the building has dimmed. There’s one fewer soul than yesterday. I pray that it wasn’t Lively.

The heat of rage and the iciness of helplessness mix in my gut, and I don’t know how I should be feeling right now. I don’t know which emotion has brought these tears now stinging my eyes. My heart burns in my chest as I imagine my last hours alive in a rancid pit that stinks of death and despair. I tremble as I imagine a young woman with Jamart’s nose, Lively, being dragged to this cesspool by the same men who pushed me around yesterday and hinted at the extra violence they’d take against me. All because she dared to believe in something or someone other than Emperor Supreme? This is justice? Reverence? This is who their god is? Violent? Depraved? And they dared call me vile? Are they—Narder and Johny—not the vile ones?

No one else stands near the fetid structure, offering prayers or companionship. Not even Narder stalks around the hut. For now, these prisoners are forgotten.

I tiptoe over to the rancid shack, fighting the urge to vomit, fixing my eyes everywhere else but the limestone-flecked shit clumping around the cracked foundation. I edge as close as possible without fouling my borrowed boots and whisper, “Hello?” to the wall.

“Who’s there?” a man’s coarse voice rasps.

“You don’t know me,” I whisper. “Is Narder nearby?”

“He’s at the tavern,” he whispers. “He drinks there all day and comes back in a worse temper than when he left.”

“Are you the only one alive in there?” I ask.

“No.” A young woman.

“I’m here, too.” An older man, weaker-voiced.

“Is Lively there?” I ask.

A gasp from the woman. “That’s me.”

“I just met your father. He’s very kind.” I close my eyes to fight nausea, to calm the ugly headache blooming behind my ears. “You others. What did you do to be jailed?”

“I stole,” the coarse-voiced man says. “Though it was only food to feed my parents. We had nothing and I was desperate and it was just sitting at the altar in the chapel. It’s not like Supreme is here to actually eat it, and I don’t think He’d want His faithful servants to starve. That’s what I thought. But I was wrong. I am to serve my sentence before He will forgive me.”

My headache grows and spreads past my eyes.

“My niece and I,” the old man says, “we drank wine.”

I wait to hear more. When the man doesn’t continue, I say, “And?”

“And,” the old man says, “we didn’t offer the first taste to Supreme. But we wanted to make sure that it tasted right, with the drought and all. We couldn’t offer Father Knete and Mayor Raffolk rancid wine.”

I frown. “ They’re drinking the wine? Not Supreme?”

Silence.

“And are they eating the food you all leave?” Anger prickles over my skin like stings from Jamart’s bees.

More silence.

“So, that’s it?” I ask. “Food and wine will be the reasons you die here? And you, Lively, because you removed something from your own door?”

No response from the prisoners. The young woman starts to cry.

Sensing danger, my neck and ears tingle. “Who passed yesterday?” I ask, my eyes skirting the doors and windows of the cottages and shops behind me.

“My son,” the older man says, barely containing his sob. “He was a good man—”

“…before I chop your head and hands off!”

Narder!

I peek around the corner of the jail.

The jailer is shoving a red-faced man up the road, heading in this direction. Both men are drunk and stumbling over their own feet. But only one man has the key to the clink and the authority to do what he wants to whomever he wants.

“Help us,” the young man whispers. “We will never leave this place.”

“No one ever does,” the old man adds. “Not alive, at least.”

Not from this jail. Not from this town.

“I will.” My voice catches, and tears slip down my cheeks. One drops and splatters in the dirt. I don’t know these people, but my heart feels like I do. “I’ll figure it out. No one else will die in here. I promise.” I close my eyes and touch the wall.

But what sort of promise can I make? I’m also a captive in this town. How can I free others when I can’t even free myself? I don’t know. But I can’t leave them. I won’t . As I hurry away from the structure before Narder comes, I make a vow: Whatever I do, it will have to be more than just leaving a single teardrop.