St. Silas tore through the kitchen, his movements fluid and unimpeded, and she released a deep breath when she realized that he was not the one who was injured.
“Quickly.” His command was swift. “Where can I put him?”
Leena’s eyes fell to the bundle he carried in his arms. She staggered closer, her thoughts passing through her mind like bullets slowed by water.
The bundle stirred. A whimper escaped, then a small childish sob.
“On the table.” Mrs. Van hurried to strip the cloth off the aged wood.
Carefully, St. Silas eased the weight onto the table.
It was a boy, not much older than seven, wrapped in St. Silas’s coat.
Leena could not tear her gaze away from the boy’s pale skin, mottled with bruises shaped like handprints—over his brow, on his neck, trailing beneath his clothes. His shoulder was fixed at an awkward angle, the bone jutting from the socket. Small whimpers racked his body.
Leena was sure that she must’ve walked into a nightmare.
A flicker of movement by St. Silas’s shoulder caught Leena’s horrified gaze.
A ghost stood over the boy.
It was clear that the phantom had returned not to comfort the living, but to rage at them. It took her turbulent mind a second to recognize him as the tradesman from that morning, Mr. Marlow.
Mr. Marlow’s ghost flared with fury. Even in the dim light, Leena could see the phantom’s clothes hung off him in a bloodied mess.
St. Silas’s dagger was lodged in his chest.
All at once, the tradesman’s words came back to her:You do intend to send one of your men today to clean upthe mess?
She had thought the worst of St. Silas’s reaction that morning. But that same burning anger St. Silas had shown then now thrummed through Leena’s own veins, and she could not stop the accusation pouring from her mouth. “Youdid this to him!”
The entirety of Leena’s livid focus was on the ghost, and she did not notice St. Silas and Mrs. Van momentarily halt, turning to stare at her.
“No, madam.” St. Silas looked at her with an expression he had never worn before, but his tone was cold when he replied, jerking her attention away from the phantom that hovered over him. “While I cannot usually fault your reasoning, I’m afraid you are wrong on this account.”
Leena blinked, unsure what he was speaking of, her gaze returning to Mr. Marlow’s phantom, who watched the child with dark hatred.
She jolted into action once Mrs. Van called her name sharply.
She aided Mrs. Van in removing the coat from the boy, revealing stretches of skin marked only with pain. Leena’s one small comfort at the awful scene before them was that there existed no better healer and apothecary than Mrs. Van with her endless supply of strange herbs, rare medicinals, and thick books lining the kitchen cabinets. If there was ever a chance for amends, the child would find it here—ironically, in the Saint of Silence’s own residence.
Leena’s hands shook as she unbuttoned the child’s shirt collar, wincing whenever she caused the boy to shriek. Hot tears formed at the back of her own eyes and she could not speak past the lump in her throat.
“Who is he?” Mrs. Van asked, and Leena had never heard such strong emotion waver her voice before.
“A servant-boy.” St. Silas’s voice remained steady. His back was bent as he held a strip of gauze to the boy’s forehead, stemming the bleeding from a deep gash across his scalp. The firelight cast St. Silas’s face in shadow, and Leena could not read his expression, but his shoulders were coiled as if he was ready to fight again. “He had accidentally broken one of his master’s vases while polishing it. Clearly, his master was not the forgiving sort.”
“Please…please…” The boy’s lips barely moved as he spoke, but Leena could not catch what it was he asked for.
“Do not be afraid. Your master is dead now.” St. Silas’s voice did not sound like his own—or not like what Leena had ever heard from him. “The dead cannot bother the living.”
Then St. Silas caught Leena’s eyes briefly, as if to say,The dead cannot bothermostof the living.
St. Silas’s words seemed to bring a measure of comfort to the child, for his whimpers quietened momentarily. When the boy did speak next, his voice was a barely formed whisper. “Will you please…continue…the story…”
Leena had long abandoned undoing the buttons, and was now cutting through the boy’s shirt in order to view the extent of the damage to his shoulder, but she stumbled and leveled an astonished look at St. Silas.
St. Silas’s mouth was a grim line. He did not return her look this time.
