TEN MILES SOUTHWEST OFTHORNBROOKlies Kilkare, a collection of mud-brick homes tucked in a shallow valley where the River Mur and River Twee converge. As with all towns in Carterhaugh, it is surrounded by a stone wall spiked with iron teeth. Kilkare adheres to some of the older beliefs about combating the fair folk, so a thick piling of salt rings the wall as an additional layer of protection.
We’re stopped at the gates prior to entering town. The chestnut mare drawing our wagon paws the dirt as the gatekeeper searches our cargo, the boxes of wares. Ten novitiates wait beside Mother Mabel, myself included.
The gatekeeper lifts a hand. “Clear.”
Fiona draws the mare forward by the reins, and the cart lurches onward. Aligned in single file, we trudge down the wide dirt lane. Every tree has been cleared, every blade of grass crushed underfoot, Kilkare a dark scar in the center of green-flushed Carterhaugh.
The air smells of smelted metal, and the sun peels away from the mountain’s crown to flood the valley in mid-morning light. Market Day—the first of the month. Although Thornbrook is self-sufficient, we sell much of what we produce—herbs, wine, fresh bread—to supplement the resources the abbey provides to the surrounding community.
Chaos overwhelms the main thoroughfare. Cart wheels dig trenches in the mud. Half-dressed children, all knees and elbows,dart beneath horses, dirt flinging from their bare feet. Tables, stalls, and storefronts clutter the road, merchants swinging their wares, artisans belting out prices as if they’re moments away from going out of business. The forge where I once apprenticed belches smoke from the next lane over. In the distance, the white spire of a cathedral interrupts Kilkare’s earthen tones.
“You know the drill, ladies.” Mother Mabel gestures to an empty lot squeezed between two storefronts, where we unhitch the wagon. “I will return shortly with sweets. Any requests?”
Harper pushes to the front of the group. “Sugar cookies, if you please.” She scans the group expectantly, as if anticipating a challenge. A few women drop their eyes to the ground.
Mother Mabel nods, somewhat distracted. As soon as her attention moves elsewhere, Harper’s expression presses into disappointment.
“I will see if they’re available,” The abbess says. “Anyone else? Brielle?”
Though I’m partial to the raspberry tarts, I merely say, “No, thank you.” I’ve little inclination to stir Harper’s ire, and my preference feels too trivial to voice anyway.
“Very well. Fiona, if you will accompany me?” She gestures to the fair-skinned youth, and off they go to the bakery.
Harper’s eyes narrow on Fiona’s back. The loathing twisting her features needles my spine, for I have seen that expression directed at me before.
The novitiates talk. They claim Fiona will be next in line to undertake the calling of a vowed life. I sincerely hope otherwise. Ten years I have studied and prayed, all to one day accept my appointment as an acolyte—a shepherd of the Father. Due to the exhaustive instruction required to train new acolytes, only one novitiate may ascend each year. Yet again, I worry I will fall short in the abbess’ eyes. Does Mother Mabel not see how deeply I desire to serve the Father? It must be me. Itmust.
My back twinges as I haul the crate of knives from the wagon to my table. Prying open the lid, I remove a bolt of white fabric and begin to unfold it.
“Give that to me.”
I glance up. Isobel looms over the table, her hand outstretched.
The cotton crinkles in my fist, and I frown. “I need it for my knives.”
“And we need it for the wine.” Harper appears at Isobel’s side. Both wear their trinity knot pendants, which we must never take off. Mine rests beneath the collar of my dress.
“You already have a tablecloth,” I say. Two, in fact.
Isobel grins rapaciously. Her teeth gleam like rows of pearls against her dark skin. “We want this one.” Striding forward, she snatches the fabric from my hand, pivoting so fast the cotton whips my legs and her numerous coiled braids nearly whack my cheek. Together, she and Harper drape it over the table where they’ll sell jugs of wine.
My chest tightens with a feeling I know well. How easily they rile me. Today of all days, I seek clarity. Without a clear mind, I cannot safely move forward in handling my predicament, the mysterious stranger in my room.
Business is steady throughout the morning. The sun climbs, and my skin grows sticky in the heat. I sell four daggers and two kitchen knives before noon. When the crowds begin to thin hours later, a cloaked figure strolls our way, parting the lingering chaos like a river cutting through limestone.
My gaze tracks the limber motion. Beneath the raised hood, two dark eyes swallow the woman’s ashen face. They sit dull as rocks, as though someone plucked out her eyes and shoved smooth black stones into the sagging hollows instead.
I straighten, a hand drifting to the iron dagger hanging from my waist. Fair folk. How did one manage to slip through the iron gates?
As the woman halts at my table, Fiona darts off, hopefully to find the abbess, or at least to alert the authorities. I’m afraid of what will happen if I move too suddenly.
“I do not see a touchmark stamp,” she mentions in a low rasp, gesturing toward one of the daggers lining the table. Those stony eyes lift to mine. “Are you the bladesmith?”
“They were forged in Thornbrook,” I whisper. She is small, this woman, her body underdeveloped, bony beneath her long, sheepskin cloak. Her papery lips peel apart over oozing gums. Seeing this unsightly creature, it is hard to believe the fair folk once shared Carterhaugh with us mortals long ago.
“By your hand?”
I glance around to find that the market has all but cleared, awareness of Kilkare’s undesired visitor having spread. It is true: I coaxed the fire to life, commanded the hammer, yet the blade bears no signature identifying its maker. I’ve never had the courage to create a touchmark stamp of my own.
