And that was the other thing which was better left to rot in this cell, and not paraded out there, where people would eventually see, and Seraphina would ultimately suspect and ask about.
Who was he? How old was he? Why did he know how to do things one man couldn’t hope to learn and execute in one life? Why were his memories disjoined? How could he remember having grown up in a barn with the animals, and at the same time be able to recite in his head Ovid’s verses as he’d learned them from his tutor?
When he thought about the barn and the warmth of hay, he felt a stab in his right lung.
When his mind spilled at him:
“In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas...”
“My mind leads me to speak now of forms changed into new bodies...”
... a vein in his left thigh throbbed and didn’t stop for minutes on end.
Melodies that played in his head made his fingers twitch and move of their own accord, tapping invisible notes on the nearest hard surface.
They never stopped. The echoes, the longings, the nightmares and confusions of egos clustered in one body, each haunting an organ or a limb, a patch of skin, or a fragment of bone.
He was all of them. He was none of them.
He was...
... like every single part of him...
Better off. Dead.
Chapter Thirteen
No clean grave awaits where you can just lie.
In the late hours of the morning, the rain let up, and Seraphina emerged from the postern passage she’d used as shelter. The narrow tunnel cut through the thick city wall, connecting the streets above to the stone steps that led down to the river. Washerwomen and water carriers used it during the day, but at night it was empty.
It would’ve been easier to huddle in a doorway or building alcove, where the homeless sometimes slept, but it had felt too exposed to Seraphina. The city watch often checked these places and chased the beggars away. After her prison escape, she knew she had to avoid men in uniform and the spots they patrolled.
Fueled by terror and adrenaline, she’d run and kept running, the Danube calling to her. In bad weather, people avoided the river, which swelled and raged. Only boatmen and fishermen went near it, and everyone else knew better. The banks turned to mud that could suck a person down, and the current pulled hard enough to sweep away anyone who slipped. Seraphina knew the Danube well, having walked its banks in summer, hand in hand with Matteo. She knew how the water hummed under the clear blue sky, and how it churned when it stormed. The river was an old friend who’d seen her both happy and sad over the years, and now could provide familiarity and a sliver of safety when she was disoriented and alone.
She left her hiding spot once the city had woken to its usual errands and clamor. She kept her head down, her hair over her face, and ducked through narrow alleys she knew weren’t frequented. Her bare feet sloshed inside her untied boots, now filled with rainwater. It couldn’t be helped. She didn’t have a kreuzer in her pocket; all her money had been confiscated when she’d been arrested.
She stole glances into inner courtyards as she passed, and when she found one that wasn’t gated, she stepped inside and looked around, made sure she was alone. There was a clothesline crossing from one low window to another, and Seraphina went to work fast. She pulled down a wool dress and an old cloak that was too big for her. She hesitated as her hand smoothed over a linen shift, slightly damp but smelling clean. Her own undergarments were stained with blood, as she’d had no way of washing them, but to wear some other woman’s shift felt too intimate.
She was filthy, cold, and she couldn’t stand it. She grabbed the shift, faced the nearest wall, and quickly stripped and changed. She left her clothes in a pile in a corner and silently apologized to the person she was stealing from. She ran her hands over the dress and noticed it was sewn in places. These weren’t fancy clothes. They were practical and well-worn, carefully repaired many times over. She knew she was stealing from someone who didn’t have much, but she needed the garments more. She hurried back into the alley before anyone saw her through the windows.
Feeling somewhat human again, Seraphina pulled the hood of the cloak over her head and low on her forehead. She followed the sounds of the city and emerged near the main market. Sticking close to a wall, her head low, she listened to the people and catalogued the smells wafting around – freshly baked bread, pastries, cheeses, and the pungent odor of fish. Her stomach rumbled violently, and her fingers dug into the cracks in the stone. Could she steal food? It was dangerous. The relic in her eye socket granted her a sense similar to vision, but it wasn’t the same as actually being able to see. She could judge the distance between objects and people, which meant she never bumped into anything or anyone, and she knew when someone was looking directly at her or was turned away, but she couldn’tsee reactions or expressions. She could intuit them, like a sixth sense, but that wasn’t enough to help her steal or pickpocket in a busy market. The relic didn’t grant the needed finesse.
She remembered there was a soup kitchen a few buildings away, in a hall that had been destroyed in the French Invasion nearly twenty years prior, which the church had rebuilt and repurposed to feed the poor. Tightening the oversized cloak around her body, she started in that direction, keeping a low profile. Soon, the smell of barley and pea soup met her nostrils, and her stomach protested again, the pain becoming unbearable at the thought that what the church served was a hundred times better than what she’d been eating in prison.
There was a line stretching out into the street, and Seraphina halted, trying to gauge how long it would take for her turn. Two dozen shadows she counted with the aid of the relic. She sighed and shifted from one foot to the other to keep herself occupied. She rubbed her hands together, hiding them in the large sleeves of her stolen cloak. Her fingers kept twitching, reminding her they had nothing to hold onto – a stick to help her navigate better, or the hilt of a dagger to reach for. She was dressed well enough yet felt naked without a weapon.
She heard heavy boots on the cobblestones, multiple pairs, and metal clinking with each step – buckles, maybe, or the handles of truncheons knocking against belt leather. The murmur of the line went quiet, and Seraphina tucked her chin and inclined her head to the right, trying to determine what was happening. The boots were getting closer, and with them came low, harsh voices.
Watchmen.
Her heart leapt in her throat. They were checking the line, either looking for someone or making sure no one caused trouble at the church’s door. Slowly, she took a step backward, then another. Her target was the nearest alley, down whichshe could disappear undetected. Luckily, no one paid attention to her, and she managed to slide out of sight before the men reached the end of the line. Sticking close to the wall, she put distance between herself and the promise of a warm meal.
She was so hungry that she could cry. The burn in her throat was of frustration and injustice. She couldn’t even shed a few tears to make herself feel better. She had to live with the hunger, the anger, and the knowledge that she’d been reduced to a street rat, unwanted and despised, forced to steal to survive.
Seraphina retraced her steps back to the market, thinking her only option was to hide in the shadows, bide her time, and maybe an opening would present itself where she could steal a loaf of bread. A door creaked up ahead, and she slowed her pace when an old woman emerged and started walking ahead of her. There was the distinctive tap of a walking stick, and Seraphina’s chin stuck out from underneath her hood. She moved faster, calculating if she should approach the woman from the right or from the left.
No. What was she thinking? She couldn’t steal some old lady’s walking stick. Yes, Seraphina needed it as a weapon in case she ran into a watchman she couldn’t avoid. And because she was technically blind. But she couldn’t swipe it from an old, poor woman who couldn’t walk without it. She cursed under her breath and slowed down again. Her situation was dire, and the horrible things she’d gone through in the past few years had changed and hardened her, had made her into a person she herself wouldn’t describe as good, but there were boundaries she wouldn’t cross.
