Chapter 1
Phin
“Go on now. They’re expecting you.” Father Morton ushered me through the vestibule of the church, pulling together the sides of my too large, secondhand coat as we walked. He shoved the basket full of burned candle remnants at me as he opened the church doors, the cold air momentarily stalling my ability to breathe. “Georgina said she could trim your hair while you’re there. She’ll have more of the tonic for you as well, no need to continue using fireplace ash. Isn’t that something to look forward to?”
“Some men have long hair,” I argued, but there was no strength in it. I’d long since adapted to speaking in a low whisper that wouldn’t betray my identity or bother my damaged throat. Having to carefully select my words from the often nonsensical jumble that crowded my thoughts didn’t help, either. “And I wear my hood when I go out. Would it be so bad to let it grow a little? Just this once?”
“We’ve been through this, my child.” He looked down his nose at me, shaking his head. “I empathize, truly I do, but it’s necessary.” Father Morton sagged and dropped into a whisper, even glancing around to be sure there was nobody else aroundto hear him. His hands lay heavy on my shoulders as he looked me firmly in the eye and spoke so low his voice was very nearly carried away by the echoes of the hallway. “They’llneverstop searching for you, Seraphina?—”
“Phin,” I insisted. That was the one piece of me that had never changed, no matter how else my appearance was disguised. Never had I been a Sera, and Seraphina was a name only those that hunted me used.
“Of course. My apologies. We need to keep up this appearance for now, even if it’s just clothes and a haircut. It’s the best way to keep you hidden. I know this is difficult, but I promise it’s necessary.” His dark-brown eyes pleaded with me, and I softened.
This man had watched over me for more years than I cared to count, and he wasn’t asking anything outlandish. I was just… tired.
Tired of pretending. Tired of living half a life in this tiny village where I couldn’t even make a friend because I was a danger to myself and those around me simply by existing. My desire tobea friend, to participate in the community parts of village life, to have a simple, aimless conversation, to even laugh freely, was starting to feel too big to contain.
“I understand.” The words left a sour ache in my throat.
“When you get back, we can spend some time working in the library, perhaps? Copying the holy texts is a productive and fulfilling task for us both. The apothecary finally got in some of the blue ink you are so fond of, as well as the gold.”
I brightened. Being among the books soothed me like nothing else. I loved the smell of the old parchment and leather, the ink. It reminded me of the many hours I spent at my father’s feet in the archives he kept.
My penmanship was somewhat lacking in grace but legible enough, and I took great joy in creating the artistic swirls, scrollsand flourishes around the edges of the pages. The act of copying the letters, the scratching sound of the quill on parchment, it was all deeply meditational.
Father must have truly felt awful about things if he was dangling my favorite reward.
“Yes, please.”
“Good. Be sure she actually counts. We’re returning?—”
“Thirty-six, I know.” I marched down the steps, chin tucked, as a gust of wind threaded its icy tendrils into every gap in my oversize clothes.
The walk to the chandler’s wasn’t far—nothing in town was—but I had to take the extra-long route that passed all the shop windows on the side of the street facing the square only to circle around to the back alley. It didn’t even matter that I was there on actual business; I was the village’s invisible resident and rarely got to use the front door.
I tapped the designated knock, and Georgina hustled me in like she’d been standing right there waiting for me.
“About time, young man!” she huffed. “I haven’t got all day, you know. Not even for Father Morton’s special requests.” She assessed the contents of basket. “What’ve you got for me? Looks like maybe twenty or so?”
“Thirty-six.”
“What’s that? Speak up.”
“Thirty-six,” I said as loudly as I could, which was still barely above the hushed voice one would use in church. Anything louder strained my throat, and even that volume was pushing it. I held the basket out so she could get a closer look.
Her eyes narrowed, but she proceeded to count as I stared back at her. She seemed annoyed to be caught in her usual attempt to short us. It fascinated me that Georgina was constantly trying to cheat the church of all places out of candles. I couldn’t imagine what she thought she had to gain by doingso. “Alright, as you say then.” The matronly woman assessed me, her eyes sweeping up and down. “Go sit. We’ll get you looking presentable again.”
I walked past the two helpers she had dipping tapers in a large tub and a third that was setting wicks in glass containers then pouring in ladles of the thick, faintly yellow wax mix. One gave me a quick smile and nodded in greeting but none of them dared do any more than that. I lifted my hand in a brief wave, thrilled to have been acknowledged. People were mostly indifferent, and all kept their distance. It was for my safety, as well as theirs, but still stung.
I took a seat on the tall stool in the corner of the room, and Georgina approached with her shears, wearing a worn apron she’d only half tied. Her motions were brutally efficient as she removed perhaps an inch of growth. My natural pale color made the strands sparkle as they filtered through the sunlight coming in through the windows on their way to the floor.
“This new mix is better,” she muttered, using her comb and scissors together to further shorten the cut along the back of my head. “You’ll only have to use a bit and spread it through instead of applying powder.”
“Thank you,” I muttered. We’d tried just about everything over the years to color my light hair dark. Ashes, soot, charcoal. Nothing stayed very long, and it was tiresome to keep reapplying. “Face too?”
Georgina nodded, eyes squinted as she evened out a section. “Yes, just put a little on your finger and wipe it on your lashes and brows.” She assessed her work. “There. All done.”
I slid off the stool and reached for the broom resting against the wall, cleaning up the mess. The bell on the front door rang, announcing the arrival of a customer.
