•••
THEY SPLIT UP.
It’s not the best idea, but worse to let Baeddan Sayer wander. Mair heads toward the forest, to loop around the northern edge of the valley in case Baeddan is being drawn to his more recent home; Rhun goes to the Sayer homestead; Arthur gets the rather short straw of searching Three Graces itself.
God, Arthur feels fiery, awake, fulfilled, even after only a few hours of sleep. The sunlight is clear, his eyes see far, and he’s ready to act. Arthur came out of the Devil’s Forest fearless. And that makes him powerful.
What I am is not foryouto decide!
It’s a revelation he wishes he’d had years ago.
As Arthur tromps through the grass, down around the barley fields, and skirts the edge of the sheep pastures, he smiles. There always was something wrong with this valley, and he knew it, even if he was wrong about the source. Three Graces is ruled by fear. Fear of death, illness, bad crops, too much rain! Fear of little girls, even, and saints. He remembers thinking only the Slaughter Moon reminds everyone of their place, two nights ago at the sacrifice feast. But it isn’t the bargain. It’s fear. Not of the devil, but fear of change. Fear of doing anything different that might cause a ripple and bring it all down. Fear of a little boy in a dress, because he didn’t fit into the structure of town, the rules.
There was never anything wrong with Arthur.
Except his damn memory. He’s angry he can’t remember kissing Rhun in the forest. A wild thought crosses his mind—You’ll have to kiss him again, then—and it terrifies Arthur, so he laughs.
A small group of girls—a couple of Howells and Bethy Ellis—head toward him from the edge of town. They pause to watch him, whispering behind their hands, and Bethy is sure to touch her lips flirtatiously. Arthur’s smile turns a little too self-satisfied.
And then, around the corner from the last row of cottages comes Alun Prichard, calling out something to Taffy Howell. He stops short at the sight of Arthur, though, gaping slightly before he sets his features in a knowing drawl. “Couch,” he says, “borrowing a man’s clothes from your daddy—or Rhun Sayer’s daddy?”
It’s Alun’s usual sort of jibe, more ignorable than hurtful, but that never stopped Arthur from rising to meet the stupidity before.
Today something amazing happens: Arthur laughs. It fades into a rather condescending smile. “You, Alun, are the last thing that scares me anymore.”
Confusion spreads on Alun’s face, and one of the boys with him claps a hand on his shoulder, laughing with Arthur. Alun shrugs it off, and Bethy Ellis says, “Arthur’s a saint now.”
Because he can afford to, Arthur shakes his head. “No, that’s only Rhun Sayer. I’m still just my mother’s son.” Nobody can change who he is except for himself, not any saint ritual, not an ignorant, terrified town, not a night spent in the forest, not a dress or a kiss. He steps nearer Alun. “My mother’s son who can still beat you to bloody bruises if I want to, and who will say otherwise?”
A scream rips over the rooftops.
All the young people startle, turning toward it and the center of town.
Arthur is the fastest to react, still tuned in to danger, and he runs for the sound.
Shouldering through a crowd at the edge of the town square, he grits his teeth and hopes it’s not Baeddan, though he knows better. More villagers push out of their houses around him, most not noticing who he is, which aggravates him. He elbows past two broad men blocking his way, ignoring the curse from the older one, and finds himself at the fore, surrounded by the worried, frightened, and drawn faces of his neighbors.
Baeddan crouches over streaks of ash and charcoal left from the bonfire celebration two nights ago. His bruised hands cover his face and his back is bowed as he bends over, making himself as small as possible. The tattered hem of his old cracking leather coat flares around him like a skirt. His shoulders are tense as he slowly rocks on the balls of his bare feet.
Arthur’s seen this pose before, and if everyone shut up, he’s certain they’d all hear Baeddan singing to himself, nonsense phrases and rhymes without finesse.
The devil crouches, muttering, and Arthur says, “It’s not as frightening as I—”
The creature thrusts up, hissing through bared teeth at Arthur, who leaps back, long knife out. But Arthur’s hand shakes—he’s too tired, too sore, too furious! “Back off,” he snarls, and the devil snaps his teeth at him, laughing.
“You’ll run and run, but you can’t outrun me, no-saint, never-saint, saintless, saint-free, saint saint saint—”
“Baeddan,” Mair soothes. “Come away with me. Leave them. You don’t need to chase them.”
“He can chase me,” Arthur snaps. “Welcome to try, devil.”
“Ha!” The devil lashes out, ignoring the knife that slices his side, and catches his claws across Arthur’s face.
Arthur strides forward and bends to one knee so he’s at Baeddan’s level. He was right; the devil is muttering softly to himself. “Baeddan Sayer,” Arthur says softly but firmly, as Mair would. “Get up and come away with me.”
“Not-saint, never-saint, is it you?” comes the singsong voice, muffled by his hands.
“It’s Arthur Couch. Use my name as I have the courtesy to use yours.”
