Cleaning gave me time to think and stew and eventually seethe. I started in my bedroom, flinging the sheets over the straw mattress and stuffing clothing back into the tiny dresser without bothering to fold any of it. The flurry of movement made my chest ache from the brand, and by the time I made it to the living room, I’d had my fill of Kit’s shirt scrubbing against my raw skin. I tugged out of the tunic and flung it onto the sofa.
My hair hung in my eyes, sticking to the sweat on my brow. It was getting long—longer than Mother ever allowed it. I swiped it off my forehead with the back of myarm as I kicked the firewood into its rack, then straightened the journals on the shelves beside the fireplace.
I spared those a spiteful glare. I didn’t care for Kit’s father’s diaries or the “wisdom” they purportedly contained. Every time Kit cracked the spine on one of the damned things, he spent the rest of the night spiraling. He stayed awake scrutinizing every line of text and occasionally muttering about someone named “O” until the second or third cup of whiskey caught up with him and he fell asleep face down in the aged parchment.
Dusting my hands on my slacks, I turned next to the kitchen. Every cabinet was open with dishes, pots, and pans strewn about. I remembered buying so many of those things, outfitting the abandoned little house with the comforts of home. I’d settled in here, believing myself safe despite Kit’s frequent warnings. Now, I felt violated. And knowing he was at least partially right made me angrier.
I started with the plates, stacking and shoving them into the nearest cabinet. As much as I wanted everything put right, it felt futile. If men here, directed by my brother, had the freedom to invade and destroy our privacy on a whim, who was to say they wouldn’t return? Perhaps I should have piled all our possessions in the middle of the floor instead, or on the front lawn to expedite their next search.
Somewhere in the midst of organizing the scattered heap of utensils, guilt twinged. Part of me blamed Kit for failing to refute Merrick’s claims. I’d left him at the smithy because I had already loosed my tongue enough for one day and didn’t want to make him the victim of my next tirade. But this trouble was mine.
Merrick was angry because I should have gone home. I should never have come here in the first place. It would have been easier to fill in my father’s sunken grave andpretend nothing had happened. They were only bones, after all. I didn’t believe in the curse, or in Eeus, or any of this.
I froze, holding a pair of spoons in one hand and a cast iron skillet in the other. I looked down at the skeletal dragon scorched onto the left side of my chest. The skin remained red and inflamed days after the torturous branding ceremony.
From there, my gaze traveled to my hands, gnarled and webbed with scars. I set the skillet and spoons aside and flexed my fingers. I wore my mistakes, both old and new. It was like I hadn’t learned better. Maybe I never would.
Melancholy consumed me as I finished tidying the kitchen. My stomach grumbled, and I glanced out the window to check the progression of the sun. I’d worked through lunch, and dinnertime was fast approaching. We didn’t have any meat, but I’d set out a pot of beans to soak the night before and could scrounge up enough dry goods to bake a loaf of bread.
I lit the fire in the stove to start the beans simmering, then retrieved a large bowl and a jar of flour. Dough came together with a pinch of sugar, yeast, and a splash of water. I used the spoon to combine it, then dumped the ball of dough onto the counter and began pressing my knuckles into it. It stretched and rolled across the wood block, softening as I worked out every lump.
After serving as Rosie’s designated kneader for weeks, I had developed a knack for it. I knew the loaf was ready to rest and rise, but I kept working it anyway, pouring my frustration into the methodical work, squishing the dough between my fingers and dipping into the jar for additional flour until I heard the front door creak open.
Kit’s boots thumped against the floorboards as he came slowly through the living room. He drew near, but Icouldn’t bring myself to face him. I felt too many things—sorry, angry, confused, and hurt—and I hoped he would leave me alone with the bread and the beans.
Instead, he came closer, brushing against my bare back as he peered over my shoulder at the lump of dough pinned under my palm.
“I think you may have kneaded it to death,” he mused.
“May have.”
Without turning, I scraped the dough off the counter and dumped it into the sink. Grabbing the bowl again, I measured another helping of flour into it. Other ingredients were added with hasty pours and sprinkles while Kit looked on.
I’d barely stabbed the spoon into the mixture before one emotion triumphed over the rest: hurt. Gods, I hurt. I ached all the way into my bones, for too many reasons to count. I had it in mind to try, and I spun around to where Kit lingered, watching with his brow furrowed.
Rather than speak, I swallowed. My arms hung limp at my sides, and my shoulders drooped. I imagined I made a sorry sight: shirtless, sweaty, dusted with flour, and on the verge of tears.
“Sayla makes the best bread,” I said at last. It wasn’t what I meant to talk about, but there were too many things competing for voice. “It’s better than Rosie’s.”
Kit cocked his head, and my mouth twisted in a frown.
“Don’t tell her I said that,” I added.
I’d tried not to talk excessively about my life in Eastcliff and everything I’d left behind. It was my choice, after all. Kit warned me about it, but I’d been so stubborn. Too stubborn to admit to yet another blunder.
“I would never,” Kit said.
I was too tired to pull away when he reached for me and rested a hand on my shoulder.
“It’s a few more months to spring planting. I know it feels like forever, but you’ll see them again soon.” His smile was soft, and it wore down some of my lingering irritation. “I’m looking forward to it, personally.”
I hadn’t considered that Kit would accompany me back to the farm. The thought sparked hope in me as much as his proximity did. I wanted so badly to lean in and tuck myself against him and believe that maybe he felt for me even a fraction of what I felt for him.
“You want to come with me?” I asked instead.
“Of course. I liked your family.” He chuckled. “Besides, you’re my recruit. Where you go, I go.”
Of course. It wasn’t affection, just obligation.
