I was barely clinging to consciousness when I managed to ask, “Are we going home?”
Kit hummed acknowledgment. “Just have to make a quick stop first.”
12
Penny
Iwoke to the sun streaming through leafless trees. It painted everything in warm golden light as it burned away the lingering mist of night.
My face was cold, but my body felt warm, covered by a heavy wool cloak and pressed against something—someone—radiating heat. I wriggled as much as I dared, feeling the unmistakable curve of Kit's body along my back. One of his arms was thrown across me, and his legs were entwined with mine.
A smile pulled at my lips. I took hold of his dirt-crusted hand and tugged it over my chest, holding us both in place. I couldn't see much but the sky over the sides of the cart, and I wondered where we'd stopped, but further inspection would require me to ruin this perfect moment, and I wasn't ready for that yet. So, I laid still and counted rattling breaths.
It might have been prudent to stay at the mission. Nora seemed kind, and I would have appreciated some treatment to relax the seized feeling in my lungs, but I couldn’t bear the thought of staying, or of Kit leaving me even for a shortwhile. I didn't have the words to explain what must have looked like a fit of madness. And Kit wouldn't ask. He never demanded more than I was willing to give. I owed him gratitude for that, too.
After a while, the growling in my stomach could no longer be ignored, so I slipped free of Kit’s embrace and sat up. We were back at the old cemetery. I groaned at the thought of another day of digging, then cringed imagining what we would find at the bottom of the grave.
The muddy shovels were piled in the wagon on either side of us, along with the array of wooden crates that looked to have been rearranged. Food was stashed in one of those; the big, square one, as I recalled. I scooted across the floor of the cart and moved boxes to unbury the one I sought, then pried open the lid.
The contents had been jostled, probably in transport from the mission back to the graveyard, so I had to dig to find what I was looking for. From amidst the hay, I fished out a ripe red apple, then burrowed deeper in search of the pouch of jerky I knew to be inside. Toward the bottom of the crate, something foreign caught my eye. Dirt-stained tan and smooth, I dragged my fingers across its domed, porous surface. When I tipped it over, a pair of hollow eye sockets turned up toward me. I jerked back, nearly crashing into the crates I had stacked aside.
A chill washed from my head down to my feet. My mind raced as I surveyed the dozen similar boxes piled all around me. Most had been at least partially empty before, but I imagined they were all full now. Reeling, I looked over and found Kit reposed exactly how I'd left him. He was even dirtier than the night before, smeared with dried mud up both arms and his clothes similarly stained.
He'd done it alone. He dug the grave and unearthed thebody, then dismantled it and packed it away. Without help. Without a word. He'd said he wanted to spare me such things, but I wished he wouldn't.
A cough slipped out, and I cleared my sore throat, wincing at the pain.
The sole apple would do little to stave off my hunger, but I was unwilling to search the box for anything else. Sitting beside Kit, I polished the fruit’s waxy skin on the sleeve of my shirt. Between bites, I looked over at him, studying the slant of his nose and the curl of his long eyelashes.
There was something in his face I wanted to capture. Tossing the apple core into a stand of tall grass, I reached into my boot for my sketchbook.
It wasn't there.
I froze, thinking back to the last time I had it and all that had happened since then.
It could have fallen out at the mission, or off the side of the cart while we rode through the night. Maybe it slipped out while we were digging. I bounded out the back of the wagon and tromped through yellowing grass and past the score of headstones. My heart pounded and my breath clouded in the air. I coughed into my arm as I scanned the ground, searching for the freshly turned dirt and the grave Kit had emptied.
Standing over the mound, my stomach churned as I envisioned the small, leatherbound book left in the hole from when I passed out, now buried several feet down and lost to me.
“Kit?” I called as I returned to the cart and climbed inside.
He was sleeping still, and that gave me pause. He must have been exhausted.
I lowered myself onto hands and knees and crawled toward him, passing our slouched packs and stopping to dig into mine. I was a little worried I might find bones tucked away in it, but a thorough search revealed nothing but clothing and other essentials.
“Kit?” I tried again, creeping close enough to jostle his leg.
Another siege of coughs overtook me. I rocked back on my heels and hacked until I was robbed of air. The sky spun around me as I gasped at last, bleary eyed and blinking at Kit who was wide awake and on his knees before me.
His face was pale beneath the smears of dirt, and the peaceful expression he’d had in sleep had vanished. He looked as teary as I was, but I imagined for different reasons.
I gave a sheepish wave. “Have you seen my sketchbook?”
He frowned, then patted down the side of his pants and reached into the pocket there. When he pulled out the worn brown book, I sighed in relief.
“I meant to put it in your bag,” he muttered. “Must have forgotten.”
Grinning, I scrambled forward to snatch it and felt it over briefly before tucking it into my boot. With the moment of excitement behind me, I settled back, hugging my knees up to my chest and giving Kit room to sit back as well.
