“It is customary for the people of the Aksari Mountains to plant Rosethorns over the graves of loved ones,” Leena continued, “symbolizing that if such a flower can endure the harsh winter of the mountains, so can the spirit find peace in the coldness of the earth.”
This time St. Silas did not comment.
They continued—Leena reciting, both shoveling—until they’d dug a rectangular hole deep into the ground. Streaks of sun began lightening the sky and birdsong filtered through gaps in the trees—which seemed an odd contrast to the grimness of grave digging.
“Enough.” St. Silas finally put his shovel down. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of mud by his left brow.
St. Silas dragged the heavy body across the grass, a trail of blood behind him. With one final push, the body fell into the grave like a disjointed rag doll. The corpse’s head hit the ground first, with a sickening thud.
“Wait,” Leena cried. “We are the only witnesses to his funeral. Wemustsay something.”
“I caused his death, Miss Al-Sayer,” St. Silas said, with another twist of his mouth. “I do not think this man’s main concern would be whether or not his killer says a few kind words over his grave.”
She flinched at the wordkiller.Taking a deep breath, she said a phrase in her father’s language—a common saying to send off the departed.
May your soul no longer crave the soil.
“That sounds similar to what you said in the prison.” St. Silas’s voice held guarded curiosity. “Is it a prayer?”
Leena looked at him, surprise on her face. “You remember what I said?”
“I did not understand it. Both sounded…final.”
Turning back to the grave with stinging eyes, she whispered, “Of sorts. Both are goodbyes.”
That distant expression returned to St. Silas’s face. When he looked back at the dead man, it seemed to Leena as if he was not quite seeing him. Then he picked up the shovel and started throwing dirt over the grave. “You’re shivering. Let’s finish.”
She was shivering, but she was not surprised that he had noticed. As always, very little escaped him.
They began to make their way back after the last drop of soil fell onto the heap. Just as they crossed the clearing, Leena turned to have one final look at the grave.
She halted, sweat breaking out on her forehead.
A ghost stood over the mound. An Algaraan, barely older than Rami. Blood pooled from his forehead, and his abdomen bore the mark of Leena’s dagger.
“Miss Al-Sayer, what is it?” St. Silas was beside her, his sharp tone silencing the birds.
She brought a trembling hand to her eyes. “The boy we killed—” She could barely speak over her own heartbeat. “He looks like Rami. He’s half starved, he’syoung—”
St. Silas’s eyes flickered to where Leena’s gaze was trained, but he clearly saw nothing. “Look away from the dead.” His own voice sounded suspended between concentrated control…and a fiercely buried lack of it. “We had no choice—”
Leena shook so hard that she could not focus on St. Silas’s words, her eyes still trained on the phantom that now lay weeping over his own grave. “No,hedidn’t have a choice,” she replied brokenly. “That is what happens to people who look like me. They take our homes, they take our fathers, they take the very food from our bellies—”
“He tried to kill you. It was either be slain orlive.” His voice tightened as he looked at the nothingness, jaw rigid. When he glanced down at her still-pale face, he added, “He was a Black Coat.”
It was no real comfort to her that the young dead boy had been a gang member. “Rami could’ve easily been a Black Coat.” The metallic taste of copper coated Leena’s tongue. “The Black Coats are filled with immigrant children—children whose homes could be found on the opposite end of a closed fist—”
“I understand—”
“No, you don’t understand. How could you?” Her cheeks were wet, the cold air biting her face. “You are Morish. The soldiers on the street stop to interrogate me daily, but they bow to you. The color of your skin, the tenor of your voice, even your accent, all proclaim your right to exist here, whereas anyone who looks like me—likethatboy buried in this unmarked grave—iswrong.He never had a fighting chance.” The rise and fall of her chest felt like she was squeezing air through clogged vessels. “It is beyond you being the Saint of Silence. You belong to this land, hold superiority in it.” She wiped her face with her dirt-crusted sleeve. “You always have a choice.”
St. Silas looked away from her, his stare now locked on the rising sun behind the treeline. The hard lines of his throat worked, as if he was trying to swallow down words—or memories.
When he spoke next, his voice was carefully detached, his expression fixed. “I was very young when I buried my first body. I was sobbing so hard I could not hold on to the shovel.” His voice barely changed, but she caught the fragmented borders of it anyway. “Believe me, Miss Al-Sayer, I also had littlechoicethen.” His stance was rigid, muscles coiled, as if he still held that same shovel. “The boy I buried was fourteen. I was twelve. The earth was not soft.”
Leena stared at him in astonishment, feeling a sudden, visceral, burning shame. The need to desperately take back her words rose through her like a tide. At twelve she had been holding her father’s hand, eatinghalwaon lazy summer days, not learning her way around a grave.
But Leena’s tongue didn’t know how to form words of remorse, so instead she continued to mutely watch St. Silas. She found he was staring back, equally wordless, equally weary.
