“Good.” He claimed my hand, and I startled at the contact while my insides melted at his touch. Few besides Speck had ever shown me a crumb of affection. Unless you counted Otto Mortis.And that bastard had wanted far more than a handhold. I shoved the thought aside and looked at the darkening horizon.
“I sold three more tins of my swaddling cream. I’ve almost ten coins saved now.”
“That’s wonderful, Sera.”
“Someday we’ll have enough to leave this place. Just you and me. Living among the free-folk.”
We’d never earn the amount needed to buy out our contracts. Instead, we’d have to run. Far.
He squeezed my hand. “And I’ll have a flock of my own.”
“Yes. With dozens of plump nerf for you to watch over.” Speck was never happier than when he was caring for something smaller and more vulnerable than himself.
“And you’ll have your own shop,” he added, “selling herbs and medicines.”
“With nobody to order us around.”
“We’ll be free.” He sighed.
The back of my neck tingled, and I scratched at the scar. If any of the Puritans saw it, we’d be forced to leave sooner rather than later. It emerged on my recent birthday, hot, burning, and immune to every salve I’d tried. I hadn’t even shown Speck.What it meant, I didn’t have a clue. Only that it was likely an omen of bad things to come.
Just a hint of stars sparkled to life above our heads. Whipwilliestrilled their rolling melodies. Folklore claimed the bird’s songs were a warning of impending death and misfortune. A shiver crawled over my skin.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Speck whispered, gazing out over his flock.
“Always.”
“Sometimes, when it’s dark and quiet out here, I hear strange noises coming from the mountain. Not animal sounds. Ghost sounds.” His prepubescent voice crackled.
I forced a calm I didn’t feel, scanning the surrounding shadows. “You’ve nothing to fear, Speck. All those stories about Gravestone Mountain are just tall tales.”
Generations ago, the Puritans chose this place because of its lack of obsidian—a substance only found in kingdoms blessed by Goddess Hathor’s magical arbor trees. Those lucky kingdoms flourished while places like this one often struggled to eke out enough food to support their population. And yet the Puritans considered magic a bane upon the realm. A great plague whose influence should be avoided at all costs.
“But they say the mountain is haunted.” His brown eyes rounded. “That the ghost of a terrible monster lives in the caves. Any who dare to tread there is swallowed whole, cursed to be digested for eternity in the beast’s belly.”
“Nonsense. Who told you such a thing?”
“Master Mortis,” he murmured.
“Mortis. That figures.” My temper flared. “I swear that man is rotten to his core. Torment is his favorite pastime.” I should know. “You stay far away from that devil’s spawn. You hear me?”
“Yes, Sera. I hear you.” Speck rolled his cajoling eyes, groaning.
If only I could stay away as well. Except with Mortis as steward of our little village, and me, personal servant of Lady Penelope, avoidance was downright impossible. At least Speck spent most of his time out in the fields, instead of beneath the blowhard’s overly long nose, with its wiry, jutting hairs.
The man’s breath would wilt a crop of turnips. Worse, he always stood close enough to spray me with spittle, his gnarled handsaccidentallybrushing my breast or backside. My skin crawled merely thinking about it. If only I weren’t a slave with no power. Oh, the pain I would inflict on the man, repaying him for every offense.
“Sera. Your hand.” Speck’s fingers wrapped my wrist.
“What’s that?” I followed his gaze to the thin cut along my palm, blood trickling from where I’d squeezed the knife in my fist. “Well, that was foolish of me. But no worries.”
I tucked the blade into my skirt pocket, extracting a strip of fabric from my basket. Once I’d tied it around my hand and secured the knot with my teeth, I turned to him and smiled.
“See? All better.”
“What the—” Speck flinched, hiking his hip. “Hey, Sera. Look!”
Over the once barren patch of ground, dozens of tiny ruby-red flowers nodded their bell-shaped heads. “Red sacris. Holy flower of Goddess Hathor.” I skimmed my palms over the petals, inhaling their spicy scent. They grew thickest where my blood had fallen.
