“I am two years old, Seraphina.”
There was no way she could process this information now, so she tucked it away for later.
“What else does it say?”
“There’s a list of parts and where they came from. It’s very specific. Every bone, every organ, and every stretch of skin.”
“That is... what you wanted to know. What you’re made of. Who you’re made of.”
He followed the lines of text with his finger.
“Right lung, Alois Lamm, shepherd from the village of Tegernsee, died at twenty years of age, never traveled more than six miles from his birthplace. Left lung, William Hartley, textile merchant from Manchester, England, died at thirty-two years of age. Left femur, Sebastian Hoffman, grammar schoolteacher in Landshut, he taught Latin and Greek.”
Seraphina pressed her hands to her chest. These names belonged to people who’d lived, worked, loved, hoped, and dreamed. To hear them reduced to the body parts that were taken from them was morbid, unhinged... It was pure blasphemy. Some called the High Harvester the Blasphemer because he farmed relics. They had no idea how well the name actually fit.
“Mouth, Tomas Kovac, convicted murderer and thief from Bohemia. He was executed by hanging in Prague, at the age oftwenty-seven, his body was sold cross-border for medical use. Witnesses said he would kiss his victims mockingly after robbing them.”
Rune’s voice shook as he read the words.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Seraphina now understood why he’d told her so many times that she wouldn’t want those lips on her. She wasn’t horrified. To her surprise, she thought it could’ve been worse.
“It’s all right,” she said. “It doesn’t mean anything. Go on.”
She could tell he wasn’t reading the notes in order. He was probably focusing on the body parts that had raised questions for him these past two years since his conception.
“Larynx, Rune Larsen, traveling singer and performer from the Kingdom of Norway, he sang in beer halls, at weddings and fairs, was found dead at the age of thirty-five in an inn in Augsburg. Hands...” he faltered. “Hands...”
Seraphina saw his shadow pull away from the ledger, as if the pages had burned him. He held his hands in front of him and looked at them as if he were seeing them for the first time.
“Rune?” She said his name with gentleness, as if he were a scared animal that might bolt. “What does it say about your hands?”
He shook his head. “I can’t...”
“You made it so far. Tell me.”
“N-No...”
His reaction worried her. Something was wrong. She didn’t know what it was, couldn’t read, and had no way to help him. She sensed him starting to shake, lightly at first, then harder, until he had to grab the edges of the table to steady himself. He curled his back, head bent low, and sobbed, his shoulders shaking. Seraphina reached out and placed a hand on his arm.
“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t touch me.”
He was crying, she realized.
“Rune, what’s wrong?” She found his hand and covered it with her own. “You can tell me. Please, I want to help you, but I can’t if you won’t tell me what’s wrong. What does it say about your hands?”
His beautiful hands... She ran her fingers over his smooth skin until she found the stitch that encircled his wrist. He didn’t stop her, but the more she touched him, the harder he cried. Tears fell on both their hands.
“I love them,” she said. “No matter whose they were, I adore your hands, Rune. It was so frustrating to me when you wouldn’t touch me, and when you did, when you got over that barrier, it felt... It felt amazing. I will never forget that night, what we did at the White Horse. I will never forget any instance after when you touched my face, my body, when you held my hand in yours. So, you can tell me. Please, Rune, you can tell me anything. I am here for you.”
“You will hate me,” he sobbed. “You will wish you’d never met me.”
“No...” She squeezed his hand, grateful that he wasn’t pushing her away. “No, never...”
He nodded, as if trying to pull himself together. He straightened his back and looked at the ledger once more.
“Only because you asked,” he said. “Only because you deserve to know.”
