Kit had given me directions to her home. Upon receiving them, I’d mustered enough social awareness to avoid making any comments.
After watching her swordplay enough times – even throwing some sparring matches against her – I’d marked her style as deriving from some Foxblood techniques, as only a Foxblood had the kinaesthetic awareness and perceptive powers to handle its lack of defensive options. I didn’t recognise it, though, so I judged that the style had likely originated from one of the northern Houses, given that I had no recollection of contacting either. And she’d simply been genius enough to learn it, despite her lack of Godsblood.
From that, I’d assumed she was some sort of expatriate. All of this was extrapolated from a single judgement: it seemed too improbable that she’d learned to fight so well without significant resources.
Maybe I was right. But if I was, Kit had fallen far.
Her home was out of the range of guards, closer to the wilderness than Spires proper. It was placed firmly in the outer edges of the refugee camp. Surrounded by a sea of carts pierced by the occasional tent, Kit’s place fit right in. It was, after all, three carts arranged in a triangle, with a large rod stuck in the centre. A sheet of tough hides was slung over the top of it all.
Even so, one didn’t have to be Kani to hear the voices emanating from within.
“…absolutely unacceptable. How dare you bring such trouble to our doorstep?”
“Oh, I’m th’ one with the with the issue?” Kit’s deep drawl was unmistakeable. “How much’ve you brought home, Jana? Oh, that’s right: less’n th’ dirt spits up after a pinky’s worth’a blood.”
The response came from a clipped voice, warbling with the weight of age. “We ate because of my jewellery for weeks!“
“An’ what didja do to earn ‘em? Make notes in yer godsdamned book.”
“Oh, this again. I performed a service- “
“You didn’t shed a drop of godsdamned blood,” Kit yelled, voice cracking with emotion. “I got us here. I keep us fed. Get off it. ‘less you wanna starve, you’d do well to come with me.”
“Girl, that won’t do us any good if we’re all ran through.”
“It’s done, Jana, and we’ve got to-“
I turned my ears away from the conversation, instead looking out over the camp. The way the slums hugged the ground assisted my height in affording me a good vantage. My eyes made good use of the elevated perspective. My surroundings were strangely barren at this time of day, and the few adults that remained performed various tasks: squatting near boiling water; quietly breaking chunks of heartwood; holding muted conversations with others. Three men were playing dice on a square of smoothed dirt. My fingers itched around a phantom pair of cubes until I realised there were no stakes.
Occasionally, I’d see a man or woman meticulously cleaning their palms of filth. The next step was obvious: a blade’s flash and they would open their palm, trickling blood onto the red dirt. As it drained, they stared with trembling eyes at the patch of muddy ground. And sometimes, tiny pricks would appear in the ground, revealing that their sacrifice would bear fruit. All that remained was to ensure it wasn’t stolen. As adults went through their business, their children either watched on, poked at the ground, or played half-hearted games with one another.
Two entirely unsupervised children squatted several carts down, staring at something on the ground. I leaned to get a better angle. It was a many-legged insect; a Heartland breed of caterpillar, were I to guess. One of them – a blonde-haired girl who couldn’t be more than six – prodded at the bug, only to be shoved by the older boy beside her, whose eyes were covered by black bangs. She toppled to the floor and then straightened, scowling, and shoved him back.
As I picked at my teeth, internally judging who was to win the ensuing scuffle, a strange pair of men weaved their way through the brown landscape and into my peripherals. My head snapped to them. Their clothes were far finer than any refugee, and far too rugged to belong to a mere harvester. The clubs at their belts seemed poor hunting gear – weapons with edges or points were the norm for killing Godkin, unless they were armoured – and even if their quarry were armoured, they themselves were not. Either they were very bad monster hunters, or they were after a different kind of prey.
I hissed through my teeth. They were heading our way.
The pair’s argument continued from within the cart-hut. “…the kind of manoeuvre I would have expected from your mother, but I suppose you are her spitting image.”
An aggravated growl was the immediate response. “You can scream an’ shout all you want, but that don’t change what’s what. Get yer things; let’s go.”
“Hey, Kit?” I called. “You might want to hurry that up.”
A murmured swear, and the swordswoman was ducking out the entranceway, tilting her scabbard so it didn’t catch on the sides. She’d abandoned the disguise I gave her – though I noticed with no small degree of satisfaction that she still stunk slightly. Once she straightened, Kit stood staring at me with her body perfectly still. I looked away, more interested in the men approaching.
“How long you been there?”
Nonchalantly, I responded. “Long enough.”
The men were close, having reached the two children. Their stride had been purposeful, with too much speed for anyone without a specific destination in mind. Yet contrary to my expectations, they stopped there. The broader, flat-faced man loomed above while his more reasonably proportioned companion squatted in front of the kids, rolling several wooden chits over his knuckles. He said a few words and pointed back towards Spires.
“Ox’s bloody balls,” I swore. “They’re not after us. They’re after bloodbags.”
Kit was still staring at me. “What?”
“The men over there – see them?” I pointed. “Kidnappers. Looking for bodies to drain as sacrifice.”
“I know what a- “ She paused as her gaze settled on the kids at the men’s feet. Her face twisted.
My first instinct was to grab her; stop what she was about to do. Instead, I watched her sword rise from its sheath as she strode over to the men. “Tippi!” she called, concealing the blade behind her body. “Crumpet! Argument’s over. Go stand near the oaf.”
The broad man caressed his club, levelling a blank stare at the approaching woman. I suddenly realised that he was taller than even Kit, and likely outweighed her by a factor of two. The squatting man and the two children turned slowly, the girl clutching a wooden chit in her hands. The sullen boy grabbed her arm and dragged her towards me. He paused a few paces away, eyes suddenly fixed on his feet.
“C’mon,” I beckoned, patting the top of their cart-tent. “Go inside for a second.”
The boy nodded, gaze studiously avoiding my own. His smaller companion openly stared before being dragged inside the entrance. A muted swear emanated through the walls.
I looked back over at Kit, who stood barely three steps away from the pair, whose clubs were drawn. They were banded in metal, I noticed. The nearby refugees watched quietly, their tasks forgotten. A group of five scruffy men and women hurried somewhere after exchanging a few meaningful looks. The broad man’s eyes flickered as he watched them go.
“What in the gods’-“ came the old voice as an elderly lady exited the cart-tent. Her face was powdered to smooth skin; her eyes darkened to enhance their colour; her hair dyed black, a colour that gracefully faded to the grey of the hair’s roots; her lips painted with an artful subtlety; and all the cosmetics only served to enhance the remnants of severe frowns and hateful sneers that age had lined in her face. Despite that, she would have been elegantly beautiful were it not for the intense burn scarring that cut down the right side of her face, misting over an eye and curling the skin down her neck, where it disappeared beneath the hem of her rough dress. It looked agonising.
I kept the confrontation in the corner of my eye as I evaluated her. Kit was saying something, but the wind caught her quiet words and carried them away from me. The old woman had one good eye and no qualms about using it to blatantly inspect me.
“Kit was right,” she muttered to me, her green eye and cloudy orb unflickering. “You are large.”
I tried to think of a witty response. Then Kit’s blade flashed and the broad man fell, howling and clutching his leg. The other swung his club, only for the swordswoman to step around it and sink a fist into his kidney. Bow-legged, the kidnapper remained standing until she broke his nose with the hilt of her sword. He toppled into a roll but she managed to nail him with a stomp. The crunch was audible.
“There she goes,” the woman beside me said, squinting with her good eye. Kit was straddling the man and beating him as his broader companion tried to quell the arterial spurting from his inner thigh. “That girl is an unrepentant thug.”
“Have you…” I paused. “Known her… long?”
The group of refugees who had left returned with knapped hatchets and scythes in hand. They paused upon reacquainting themselves with the scene. Kit slammed the man one more time with her fist, then winced and clutched at it, audibly supressing a groan. She was significantly less skilled in an empty-handed brawl: not that it mattered, given how thoroughly ruined her opponent’s face was.
“Since she was a baby,” the lady replied.
“And she’s always been like…” I gestured towards the scene. She kicked the broad man’s head on the way over to the gawkers. “This?”
The lady inclined her head. “More or less. Crumpet’s heading the same direction as her, poor thing.”
“One of the kids?”
Kit was talking to the nearby refugee men and women, attempting to wipe the blood from her blade with the dying kidnapper’s clothes, the man’s writhing making it difficult. From what I gathered, Kit was offering the men’s bodies to them in exchange for their services in disposing of them. Disregarding the trouble the corpses would bring it was a generous deal, but growing less so as blood spurted from the men’s bodies.
“The little girl.” The scarred lady sniffed sharply. “Tippi is the boy. Silly name.” She eyed me without turning her head. “Would you like to come inside for a cup of tea?”
Given how easily everyone in the tent could be murdered by a cup of oil, a match, and a few heavy boxes – or a long enough blade to pierce through the roof – I did not. I was reasonably certain the question was for show anyway. “Were it any other time, maybe, but it’s probably best to get going soon.”
“So much trouble for one stupid girl’s-“ she spat the phrase as if it were a roach in her mouth, “- actions.”
A frown flashed across my face. I hurriedly wiped it away. “Be that as it may, if anyone knows where she lives you’re all in trouble.”
“Bah!” She smacked the hide roof, yelling: “Out, children!” Her expression unchanging, she turned to me. “Be a gentleman and help us load a cart, will you?”
“You makin’ a guest pack?” said Kit, walking over to us with her dark face twisting in amusement. “Shameless.”
The scarred lady snorted daintily. “And you weren’t planning on doing so yourself?”
“Maybe if he were anyone else.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Shameless indeed.”
The kids emerged, each taking a position behind the adult’s legs. They peered at me. I waved.
Kit introduced us. “Tippi, Crumpet; meet Oaf.”
“Hi Oaf,” said the blonde-haired girl. The boy – Tippi – looked at her in horror. “Are you stupid?”
“Oaf was my father,” I parried deftly. “Call me Vin.”
Tippi’s brows crinkled. “Vin Oaf?”
I grinned. “Vin Face, if anything.” Thinking for a moment, I continued. “Hunter-Face, actually.”
I heard the lady begin to slap Kit’s arm rapidly. “I didn’t know, Jana,” whispered the swordswoman. Jana kept at it for several seconds, then sighed and stopped.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“It’s not a good look to have a Face packing our bags,” she mused, shooting Kit a dark look.
“Who else is going to pull the cart?” Kit responded. The scarred lady nodded, somewhat reluctantly.
I whirled. “What?”
The swordswoman grinned, exposing her canines. “You thought I invited you for your company? No.
“You’re our mule.”
----------------------------------------
“Don-key,” Crumpet chorused in an imitation of Kit’s mocking tones. “You’re very good at your job. Is it your first time?”
The cart’s weight, plus baggage, plus assorted adults and children, plus the lute Kit had taken, were all borne by my arms pushing a length of spearwood attached to the cart by several ropes. The exertion was constant and undiminishing, yet I could’ve pulled it all another thousand leagues if I had to. Muscle fatigue was further out of my reach than it was for most people.
That didn’t mean the task wasn’t frustrating. Most of the routes that had once existed in the area had been concealed by the endless expanse of the refugee camp – the remnants of people’s former lives scattered haphazardly through the area. All that remained were four beaten pathways – one for each of the cardinal directions – and each was constantly jammed with harvesters carrying food, wood, or minerals; all the essential nutrients Spires needed to subsist. All that remained was to somehow twist our way through the seething mass to get there, my only encouragement being unsolicited advice from Jana, Kit’s uncharacteristic silence, and a jeering child.
I knew very few six-year-olds whose insults were so sophisticated. I’d be impressed, were I not struggling with the urge to make her pull instead.
“Hey, little grub?” hissed Kit. “Maybe stop with the insults?”
That was unusual.
I came to the obvious realisation moments later. After a moment’s consideration on how to play it out, I simply made my breathing heavier, slowed, then halted entirely. Bent over at the knees, I panted.
“Sorry.” I huffed to conceal my grin. “Can’t,” huff, “go any,” huff, “further.”
The girl jeered, mocking with a brutality backed by ignorance. Kit slowly hopped off the cart – which was layered with camping supplies – and trudged over to me.
“Don’t worry,” I whispered to her, “you’re almost there. Have fun.”
Mutely, she heaved against the ropes, slowly managing to get the cart rolling again. I walked beside it, whistling to conceal how impressed I was. Jana barked a short cackle as it trundled forward.
To my immense disappointment, Kit managed to curb Crumpet’s harassment with a fierce glare. The girl sulked until I began making braying noises just out of our donkey’s sight. Whenever she twisted her neck to swear at me, I would blame the sound on inanimate objects: a pair of axes; another cart; a rock. Both the kids giggled quietly, almost making it worth the dark aura leaking from Kit.
I didn’t know what she was so angry about. She was pulling it on flat ground, hindered only by the occasional pebble or rut. It was rather wimpy. I told her as much.
“I’m gonna kill you,” came her reply.
I looked at the children, who were walking beside me to better imitate the braying noises. Jerking my head, I said: “No sense of humour, that one.”
Tippi nodded seriously. Kit swore.
----------------------------------------
The Strains lived in a small house on the outskirts of Spires, on the border between the city proper and the refugee camp. It was nestled off the side of one the main thoroughfares, partially concealed between two much larger buildings. Officially, Ronnie owned it, but apparently the giant’d claimed it was far too big for just them and their dogs. Despite its size, it was a nice place: equipped with three small bedrooms, a kitchen, a common area, a closet which Gast had appropriated as her own quarters, and a small shack out the back which had become our donkey’s home. Granted: the kitchen’s bloodtech stove never had any Godsblood; the toilet and filtered water sources were a hundred paces away; thieves kept breaking in during every expedition; and the outside was heavily graffitied with slurs; but none of its inhabitants seemed to mind.
They had invited me to stay with them a month after I’d joined their team. Generous, but ill-thought – they’d barely known me, and there wasn’t any space besides. I had my hideaway. It was comfortable.
I could tell the moment Davian noticed us. He was idly staring out on the street, seated atop our cart with his head placed on top of his arm. My halberd and steel sword were absent from their holsters – they were too valuable to leave on the side of the road. His twisted features passed over us, then whipped back as he fell of the cart in surprise. I walked over to where he lay – groaning and clutching his back – picked him up, and placed him back on his feet. The old man leaned around my frame, squinted at Kit’s family rolling up the street, then stared up at me.
His gaze quietly reprimanded me. “Did you make her pull- “
“Absolutely,” I answered.
The door to the house – already open – repulsed Ronnie’s massive form, their good right arm holding their battle-axe while their underdeveloped left gripped the door frame. The giant’s blue eyes flickered across the street before settling on Kit straining against her cart. They stared in bemusement for several seconds, then snorted, keeled over, and began breathing out heavily – Ronnie’s equivalent to raucous laughter.
“See?” I said to Davian, pointing at the wheezing Strain. “They get it.”
He frowned. “Yes, well. Questionable taste.”
The other wagon finally trundled in beside us, sliding into the spot just next to our work cart, allowing Kit to silently collapse to the ground. Jana stared imperiously from the top while the two children peered over the lip of the cart.
I scratched the hair beneath my bandana. “Davian, Ronnie, this is Jana, Tippi, and…” I stared at the small girl, smiling slightly. “Cranberry.”
“Crumpet!” she yelled angrily.
I nodded. “That’s right. Rumpet.”
Crumpet threw a wooden peg at me, which I caught.
“Joking!” I announced, before she could hurl more. “Kit’s…” I looked meaningfully at Jana.
“…Family,” the elegant lady spat.
Whip hobbled into the doorway, crutch under her arm, and surveyed the scene. She whispered something to Ronnie, who inclined their head, and then the two of them proceeded to lean against the outside of the house. A moment later Ronnie’s dog, Yowler – a slow, muscular old thing with greying fur and floppy jowls – came outside, sniffed, and loped down to receive some pats from me.
Ronnie signed something. “Pleasure to meet you all,” translated Whip. “We should probably talk inside.”
With a nod, I leaned down and slung Kit over my shoulder. She punched me in the side of the head, causing me to dump her on the ground again. All nine of us filed inside, swordswoman belatedly following.
The common area was far too small to fit all of us comfortably. In addition, it contained only four seats – each a different flavour of padded chair – and Gast was already napping on one. To no one’s surprise, the scarred lady immediately occupied one, while Ronnie attempted to herd Whip and Davian into the two remaining, each insisting they didn’t need one despite their faulty leg and age, respectively. Their humming and hawing was interrupted by Kit staggering in and collapsing on the closest seat. The giant and the elderly man exchanged a look, then shoved Whip into the final seat. I slumped against a wall, feet splayed. When Crumpet sat beside me, Tippi hovered awkwardly for several seconds, then quickly settled down next to the girl.
Davian gingerly leaned against a wall, and began speaking. “What did you two do?” His gaze flicked between Kit and myself.
My jaw worked silently. The swordswoman responded before I could. “How d’you know there was trouble?” she confronted.
Whip scratched her nose. “You didn’t meet us yesterday. It’s unlike Vin to be late. And several people tried to break in yesterday.”
I straightened. “Are you okay?”
“Scared ‘em off,” Gast muttered. “Wasn’t hard. Yelling for Face Vin and the angry girl though.”
With a blank stare, Whip spoke. “That’s you two.”
“Think he knows,” responded Kit.
The scar tissue on the side of Jana’s face crinkled painfully as she glared at Kit. “How many, girl?”
“There were twelve,” said Whip, “but they ran away when Gast’s runestone started tangling their legs.”
Jana tutted. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
The Strain furrowed her brows and looked at me. “She was asking how many Kit, uh, incapacitated,” I explained. “The looking- “
Jana cut in. “That isn’t necessary.”
Whip’s lower lip wobbled. “Not your call,” I told the woman without looking, then continued addressing the girl. “It’s possible to tell who someone’s addressing by the direction of their eyes.”
The scarred woman glared. “Vin- “
Kit scowled. “Yer a guest, Jana. Be polite.”
“There are far more pressing issues than social niceties,” the lady snapped. “How many did you kill?”
“Nine, in total,” Kit growled. “Six for me, three fer the oaf.”
All of the Strains turned to look at me. Ronnie signed ‘question’, however Davian pre-empted her. “Vin, what happened?”
I swallowed; eyes fixed on a whorl in the floorboards. “They were cheating me. Things escalated.”
All of them began speaking over the top of one another: angry gestures from Ronnie; Davian exclaiming ‘Of course they were!’ ; Whip’s innocent ‘Really?’ ; Gast’s amused snort.
I buried my face in my hands. “I would’ve made so much money if Thom hadn’t- “
“Yer an idiot, Vin,” interrupted Kit, turning on her chair. Everyone in the room the room nodded – even Crumpet, joining in a moment late – except Tippi and Whip.
I had to stop myself from yelling ‘I would’ve,’ instead simply waving my hands. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Kit and I have to leave, and we’ve found a way to get all of you out as well. Though,” I continued, “it’s, uh…”
“It’s dodgy,” finished the swordswoman.
We all sat on that for a moment. Yowler huffed in, turned in place several times, and settled at Gast’s chubby feet. Resisting the urge to fidget was surprisingly difficult; neither of the children shared my qualms. The silence was shattered from an unlikely direction.
“How?” The word was childish, yet strangely smooth. I glance at Tippi, who hid behind his bangs. I’d expected his voice to be more halting.
I tapped the side of Kit’s leg with my foot. “We’re to be guards,” she began slowly, “protectin’ a caravan on its way out of the Heartlands. Food ‘nough for all of us. Huge pay out. Employment after the fact.” She sniffed. “Too good a deal by far.”
“Come now, Kit,” Davian protested. “It’s an incredible chance – is it really wise to be snubbing it so easily?”
As she leaned back and stretched her neck, the swordswoman shook her head. “S’not just that. The woman who gave us the offer… she was definitely more’n she let on. An’ she knew us; knew the gang.”
“You didn’t tell me this.” The tone that escaped me was unwittingly accusing.
“I didn’t wanna tell it twice,” Kit snapped. She straightened, then continued. “She knew I was part of the uh…” She paused, then waved her hand lazily. “Can’t remember the words, but she knew I was workin’ with Strains, though we’d never met. An’ the job was fer all of us, ‘spite the fact she’d never met you people. If I could prove myself.”
“Is that why you…”
“Yeah,” came the reply. She didn’t look at me.
Whip drummed her fingers against her knee. “Was she deliberately trying to provoke you – to get all of us in trouble? So we’d have to leave?”
“Ox balls,” Kit swore, “yer probably right.”
Everyone chewed on that for a moment.
“It matters?”
That was Gast, eyes half-lidded as her chair struggled to maintain her weight.
“What do you mean?” asked Whip.
“Like Dav said: good deal,” the large woman continued, perfectly still but for her mouth. “Albright’s Declaration. Heartlands starving. Maybe Houses closing in.”
I shook my head. “But why us?”
Her response was simple. “Because we’re good. And they need good. Even if good’s Strains. They want us. Probably too badly. Would we have said no?”
Nine people breathed. Yowler snored. Crumpet’s gaze flicked around the room, uncomprehending yet engrossed.
“Employment after the fact,” mused Whip aloud.
Inside my mouth, my molars crushed one another. For the four Strains, there was nothing more alluring than good work.
“We’ve got work here,” I vainly protested.
Far too quickly for me to comprehend, Ronnie’s under and overdeveloped hands twisted and warped, pausing for less than a moment in unfamiliar poses. “One day…” Whip translated, “one of us will die hunting under the orders of people who…” The girl paused, looking up at the giant’s childish features. Ronnie nodded. “Don’t…” Whip swallowed. “Don’t care about us. And then the rest will follow. Hunting was the best we had. But, Vin…”
Ronnie looked straight at me.
“Anything’s better.”
Faced with that, I could only nod. “Maybe. But there’s no guarantee.”
“Death is a guarantee,” Ronnie spoke with Whip’s voice. “I know that’s what you want, but for the rest of us- “
Suddenly, I was on my feet. “How dare you?” Before anyone could stop me, my hands were full of their shirt. “You don’t get to butt into my- “
Arms wrapped around my waist and heaved against my weight, yet they couldn’t move me. I was too heavy. Too strong. Ronnie’s arm pressed against my chest but this time, I didn’t let them shove me away.
“That’s my business,” I bellowed. “You understand? Mine.”
“Vin!” someone was saying. “Vin!”
“What, Sash?” I said, turning to look at the girl. Then I saw Whip and my grip loosened and Kit pulled me away.
Everyone stared. Bile churned in my stomach.
“I’m sorry,” I managed. Eyes followed as I returned to my spot. I repeated the apology to the wide-eyed children. “Sorry.” With an exertion of will I smothered the sensation burning in my chest. “You’re correct, of course,” I stated, looking up at everyone. My gaze swept across the room, catching those that met it. “But so am I.”
“Vin- “ Davian began.
I waved a hand. “I know. We’re going. But if something’s off – if they’re going to use us – we don’t keep going until we’re all dead. We leave.” I swallowed. “Is that fair?”
The room weighed my words. In the end, they all acquiesced with a nod, though Ronnie and Davian’s seemed more reluctant than anything else.
“Alright.” I clacked my teeth. “We’re meeting between Smokes and Bleeds, in the lower markets. It seems wise to scout it out beforehand. What’s the plan?”
----------------------------------------
After I’d kickstarted the discussion, I had excused myself. Were I a hardier person, I would’ve stayed; my experience accounting for ambushes and planning for retreats was extensive, though I’d only ever fought in a city a handful of times. But the languor that had risen in the spaces between their words proved too much. There was no helping them until my weariness levelled out.
Unfortunately, there weren’t many quiet places nearby. I’d ended up in the Missus’ shed, shovelling dung, loading his trough, and brushing his coat. Afterwards, he’d deigned to let me lie down in his space and promptly laid on top of me. The more optimistic part of me believed it to be out of affection, while a more realistic voice whispered that he simply wanted to warm up.
I rubbed my temples, staring at a peaked ceiling that had somehow become smeared with hay. There was far too much to purchase before we left: we’d need more potions, warmer clothes and blankets for the coming Frost, extra feed for the Missus, and dried rations in case our employer offered less than anticipated. Even after pooling our savings, I wasn’t sure we’d have the chits for all that. If we did, it would certainly leave us with no nest egg. In addition to all that, neither Kit nor I could be seen buying them without exposing ourselves, so either the Strains or Jana would have to do it themselves. The former would undoubtedly get ripped off, and I didn’t trust the latter not to piss off the vendors.
When the door to the shed opened, I was gazing blankly into nothing and idly rubbing the Missus’ side. Judging by the unusual gait, it was Whip. She stood for a moment, then carefully lowered herself onto the other side of the Missus, who immediately placed his head on her lap.
A companionable silence reigned.
She broke it first. “Are you okay?”
I nodded slowly. “I’ll be okay. I just need a bit of quiet.”
The quiet returned, only sullied by the brushing of the donkey’s coat. It stretched.
“Did you want to ask me something?” I asked.
“Yes. A few things.”
“Alright. Go ahead.”
The girl took her time formulating the question. “Do you want to… be dead?”
A shock ran through my body, as if someone dumped a bucket of ice-cold water on it. To anyone else, I could lie. It would be wrong to do it to her. “…No,” I carefully replied. It was the truth. It wasn’t honest.
“Okay.”
My lips curled into a lopsided grin. I chuckled hollowly.
Whip watched. “Who’s Sash?”
“She’s… She was my sister.”
“Oh.” Her hand scratched behind the donkey’s ears, who leaned into her lap. “What happened?”
I rubbed beneath my bandana. I drummed my fingers. I swallowed. “I don’t want to talk about it. Maybe one day.”
“Okay,” was her only response.
Another long silence.
“Please don’t tell anyone about this, Whip.”
“Okay.”
We sat for a while. She opened and closed her mouth, but it was only on her sixth such attempt that she spoke.
“I’m sorry about your sister, Vin.”
“Yeah,” I said. My mouth was dry. “Me too.”
There was nothing more to say. Whip left me there, the donkey trotting out into the cold after her. I lay there and wondered when I would learn.