Chapter 7

His words were weighted with a solemnity that made me guess the gift was something far more important than a pretty bauble.

"Like the necklace?" I asked anyway, glancing at his hands. They held no box, but the Dreaded End obviously was not bound by the usual laws of gift delivery.

"Not at all like the necklace."

And then, for the first time, my godfather told me of the night he'd visited my parents, of the night they'd agreed to his bargain, of the night I was given away.

His version differed from my parents'. In his, he was the hero, coming to rescue a poor, unborn babe— me, I realized with wonder—from a life with parents who didn't care whether she lived or died.

I hadn't known the other gods had come first.

I hadn't known my parents had been strong enough—or foolish enough, I supposed—to resist them.

When his tale was over, my head felt too full of new thoughts to parse through, and we sat for a long time in silence as I tried to untangle them. I kicked my feet back and forth, thudding the heels of my boots on the rock with a comforting repetition as I mulled over his story, pondering the words he hadn't said.

"What did you say to convince Papa?" I finally asked. My lips felt raw, my throat parched, and I badly wanted to ask for a glass of water but was too scared. I'd never felt so wholly mortal as I did in this god's presence. I was as fragile and needy as the flower he'd held in his palm and just as easily crushed.

He tilted his head, unsure of what I was getting at.

"You mentioned all the things the Holy First and the Divided Ones offered…all the promises of what my life would be like with them. What did you tell Papa you would do?"

He was as motionless as the gargoyles dotting the village temples back in Rouxbouillet, but then I saw the length of his throat bob up and down as he swallowed.

"Well…," he began. "That's the gift I was getting to."

"The gift that is not a necklace," I said, desperate to understand the full meaning of every word he spoke.

He smiled indulgently. "The gift that is far greater than any necklace." He reached out as if about to cup my cheek with a fond affection I couldn't begin to imagine him possessing, but he stopped short, sensing my reticence to be touched. His expression softened with understanding. "I told the very foolish huntsman, ‘Give the babe to me and she will never know want or hunger. Let me godfather her and she will live lifetimes, learning the secrets and mysteries of the universe. She'll be a brilliant healer, the most powerful in the land, with the power to hold back sickness, disease, and even me with her hands.'?"

I scrunched my face, unsure of what the dazzling words and promises were meant to convey. "What? What does any of that mean?"

He laughed. "You, Hazel, my dear, my goddaughter, shall become a healer."

I blinked, certain I hadn't heard him right. "A…healer?"

He nodded.

"But that…that sounds so…Are you sure?"

My godfather chuckled. "We all have to make our way through this world somehow, Hazel. Do you find displeasure with the profession?"

I shook my head, unable to articulate my confusion. "No. Nothing like that…I'm actually very good at making salves and teas from things in our garden."

"Of course you are." He smiled, leaving me to wonder just how I'd come to acquire my talents.

"It's just that…you…you're the Dreaded End. Why would you…" I bit my lip, wishing he could discern my meaning without me having to come out and say it. "Why would you want someone to heal sick people? Don't you…don't you want us all to die?"

His laughter rang out brightly over the rocky landscape. "Do all mortals truly think so little of me?" He dabbed at the corner of his eye, wiping away a tear of mirth. "I don't wish for people to die. It's just…death is a part of the journey, isn't it? A balance. If you have a beginning—birth—you must have an ending—me. Do you see?"

I shrugged. "Not many people see it that way, I would guess."

"I suppose you're right," he mused. "But it's true even so. If you were to ask the Holy First, she'd tell you the same."

"Can I?" I asked, interest sparking within me. "Speak to the Holy First?"

"Eventually, I'm sure," he said. "Once you're settled. Once your training is underway."

"Training?"

"All healers must learn anatomy, physiology, botany, chemistry. They need to know how a body operates, what things can go wrong with it, and how to correct them when they do." He peered down at me and his silvery red eyes were as wide as an owl's. "Would you want to go to a healer who hadn't learned all that?"

I squirmed. "No, of course not. It just…it sounds like an awful lot of work."

"It will be," he agreed. "But you're up for the challenge. And…," he added after a sly pause, "my second gift will help you along the way. You are going to become a great healer, Hazel. A powerful one. The best this kingdom, this world even, has ever seen. You will cure princes and their brides. Kings will ask for you by name."

"They will?"

His words stirred a sudden unfamiliar sensation within me. It licked fiery flames up my middle, fortifying my spine and squaring the set of my shoulders.

It felt like…

Ambition.

I could picture myself doing the things my godfather said. I wanted them with an intense, sharp hunger. I ached for the chance to do them, to do them all, to prove myself, to show my family—my parents—that I was so much more capable than they ever thought I was. I could be useful; I could be worth something.

"You really think I can do that?" I asked, looking up at my godfather, elation racing through me, stirring my blood and making this moment feel important and fated.

"You will," he promised. "With my help."

He raised his hand once more, hesitating for only the smallest fraction of a moment before placing it upon my forehead. It reminded me of feast days, when the Holy First's reverents would parade through the streets, finding children to give their blessings to. All my brothers and sisters received theirs year after year, but I never did. When one of the priestesses had tried to grant me favor once, Mama had pushed aside her tattooed hands with an irreverent swish.

"You fool," she'd snapped. "This child has already been spoken for and does not need your goddess's blessings."

My godfather's hand was a pleasant weight upon me now, and for all the embarrassment and shame Mama's words had caused me then, she had been right: I was spoken for. I did belong to the Dreaded End. I could feel parts of myself reaching out toward him, like called to like.

When he spoke, his words reverberated down my sternum, imprinting themselves on my bones, sinking into the marrow, where they would forever reside.

"I give you the gift of insight, Hazel Trépas, the power of discernment. Henceforth you shall know everything that ails a person and how best to treat them. Your hands shall bring relief, prolong and improve lives. Your touch will soothe and correct. Your name will be spoken with reverence and awe. You'll gain acclaim, fame, everything your heart has ever desired, all because of this gift. My gift to you. You shall use this gift all throughout your long and happy life."

He removed his hand, and the loss of his touch filled me with a strange ache. My family wasn't prone to bursts of physical affection. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been voluntarily touched. Bertie, perhaps. He'd always given his hugs with sweet abandonment. But as my mother was so quick to remind me, it had been a long, long time since we'd seen Bertie.

"Trépas?" I questioned, pushing thoughts of my brother aside. My family's surname was Lafitte.

"You're not theirs any longer," he intoned.

"I don't feel any different," I admitted after a pause, waiting for some spark of awareness to filter through me. The moment we'd shared had been important, of that I was most certain, but now that it was over, I just felt like…me.

My godfather smiled down at me with a strange combination of paternal beatific grace and amusement. "No, I don't expect you would. Remember the coin?"

I nodded.

"It was always there. It only needed the right person to come along and reveal the trick." His eyes twinkled like bloodied rubies. "You've always had your gift, Hazel. It's been with you since even before you were born, knitted into your bones, running through your blood. You just needed the right person—"

"The right god," I interjected, offering him a shy smile.

He beamed with agreement. "The right god—to come along and reveal it."

"So I'm the coin," I said slowly, "and you're the magician."

He nodded.

I arched one eyebrow. "So it is magic."

His head tipped back as he laughed, and I marveled at that. I, little Hazel Trépas—that would take some getting used to—the last and least of all my family, was here in the Between, making theDreaded End laugh.

"It is," he agreed. "And it isn't. But for today…yes."

He waved his hand over the orchard and stones began to tumble loose from the surrounding hillside, rolling together into stacks as they formed a structure. A house.

It was a tiny cottage, perfect for someone my size. I watched in amazement as open windows were glazed over with leaded glass panes. A thatched roof sprouted, smelling of sweet straw. A chimney poked its way through, with curls of smoke wafting into the air. A door, of curved wood and boasting a crescent moon–shaped window, swung open, inviting me inside.

"I must take my leave of you for now, Hazel," my godfather said. "There's work I must attend to, and I'm certain you'd like—"

"You're leaving me?" I asked, leaping off the rock in alarm. "Here? By myself?"

I glanced from the orchard to the house, up the sweeping mountains surrounding us.

"You can't—you can't leave me."

He studied me with curious amusement. "This is all yours. The house was made for you. Anything you could possibly need is in it."

"But there's no one here."

"Do you require company?" His head tilted. "I was given to understand you slept alone, in a barn."

"Well…yes," I hedged.

"I think you'll find your cottage far more comfortable…and much better smelling." His eyes lit up with remembrance. "And your quilt." He handed it to me. "There," he said, looking pleased. "You should be all set."

"But…but what if something happens to me while you're gone? What if I…" I trailed off as my eyes darted about the valley, seeing all the dangers that could befall me in the strange and isolated place.

His brow furrowed skeptically. "Hazel, I just promised you lifetimes long and happy. Do you think I would ever let harm come to you?"

I squirmed under his scrutiny. "I suppose not. I only…How long will you be gone?" I asked as resignation filled me.

"It's difficult to say…but you needn't worry. There's plenty of food inside. Books I'd like you to begin reading—you do know how to read, don't you?"

I nodded meekly.

"Excellent. Read what you can and we'll discuss it when I return. All right?"

I bit my lip, sensing further argument would be in vain.

He stood. "I will see you soon, Hazel," he promised, and turned to go.

"Wait!" I called, stopping him in his tracks. "You…you never said what I should call you. The Dreaded End? Godfather?"

He blinked, considering my question. "Neither sounds particularly right, does it? You may call me…Merrick. Yes. Merrick."

I swallowed, knowing he was going to turn around again. The very air of the Between seemed to press in closer, and I prayed he'd thought to stock the cottage with lanterns and candles. "Goodbye, Merrick. But only just for now?"

He smiled, his form already dissipating into the gloom, one black bleeding into another. "Only just for now," he echoed, and was gone.