“What do you mean?”
Penny held up his hands, marred by old burn scars. “This isn’t unsightly to you?”
They’d caught my eye the first time we met, but I hadn’t given them much thought since. As far as I was concerned, the injuries didn’t define Penny or have any bearing on who he was, so they were almost unremarkable in the grand scheme of things.
“I guess I don’t really notice it,” I said. “It’s just a part of you.”
He dropped his eyes to where his hands curled into fists in his lap. “I certainly get tired of looking at it.”
A squeeze of his shoulder called his attention back to me.
“Everyone has scars,” I said softly. “Some are more visible than others, but they make us who we are.”
Penny's eyes dropped again to his branded chest, and his lips twisted. “Who does this one make me?”
I shrugged. “My recruit. A man who’s brave enough to stand up to the Shroud Warden and prove him wrong. A son who’s doing everything in his power to protect his family.” I couldn’t help a small smile. “Someone you should be proud to be.”
Penny ducked his head and scrubbed his arm across his eyes as he leaned against me. “It’s nice to not be known for the mistakes I’ve made in the past,” he said.
I’d thought as much when I’d read his letters, but it was becoming clearer how alike we really were. While he wore the signs of his mistakes on his skin for all to see, mine were known by reputation alone. They followed me like a dark cloud everywhere I went, tainting every new place and interaction. Neither Penny nor I could ignore those stigmas, hyperaware of our own shortcomings and regrets, and I wondered how often we assumed the people we metwere as aware of them as we were when they didn’t notice at all.
“Thank you for that,” Penny continued. “And for taking care of me tonight.”
I tipped my head against his. “I like taking care of you, too.”
32
Penny
The sun was barely cresting the cliffs around Ashpoint, and my breath fogged in the morning air as I tailed Kit through the town square. We both moved a bit stiffly, our left arms near dead at our sides to avoid the swishing of our shirts over freshly branded skin.
I’d worn Kit’s button-up again, claiming he was right about the comfort, though I had no need to explain because he hadn’t questioned.
Rosie was opening the bakery stand and laying out piles of cookies and rows of fruit tarts. She waved as we passed, then continued her work one-handed, carefully guarding her own brand.
By the time we arrived at the smithy, people were strolling the streets. The usual sights and smells of what was slowly becoming home felt comforting, a relief after the dread leading up to the first Oath.
The worst was behind us now.
Well, the first ofmanyworsts.
I watched while Kit lit the forge, studying his practicedmovements and the sweat that beaded across his brow as he tended the growing flames. I used to think fire made people look ghoulish, casting strange shadows and an angry red glow, but it turned Kit’s pale cheeks rosy and curled his hair at his temples. He looked so warm and welcoming that I didn’t mind the heat rolling off the glowing coals.
While a growing stack of orders kept Kit busy, I had time to fill. I sketched designs along the edges of my notebook, then applied them to leather: tooling, punching, and lacing in a rhythm that occupied me until my stomach grumbled in want of lunch. Kit was dipping a sawblade in a vat of oil as I turned on my stool to call over to him. But, when I opened my mouth, it wasn’t my voice that filled the air.
“Mister Koesters!” A hulking mountain of a man I recognized immediately as Anders ducked under the canopy of the blacksmith stall. His shirt was open, exposing his healed brand much like he had the night before.
Ignoring the tongs and hot piece of metal Kit held, Anders barreled toward him and slung an arm around his shoulders.
Kit cringed, and I stood from my stool, meriting Anders’s notice.
“And the recruit!” the big man crowed. “You’re official now. How’s it feel?”
He peeled away from Kit, who took the chance to gingerly set the sawblade aside. He laid the tongs next to it, then tugged off his gloves and tucked them in the waistband of his apron.
“Good,” I said to Anders’s question. “Glad to be… in the fold.”
Anders chortled a laugh. “Right, right. What was your name again?”
