“Shae,” Fiona’s father, Hugo, greets me as he enters the stockroom. “When you’re done measuring the rice into containers, you can go ahead and shelve them.”
I nod, watching as he and his eldest son, Thomas, set today’s delivery down and leave without another word. Each day the deliveries are smaller, and they weren’t very big to begin with. The hardest job so far has been keeping the shelves full.
I pour the last bit of rice out of the bag and into a smaller container. Once it’s gone, the town will be out of rice. After, it won’t be much longer until we’re out of grain.
Aster is slowly starving. I shake the thought from my head and gather the rations of rice into my arms.
Morning sunlight from the large front windows fills the shop. I blink, letting my eyes adjust. The store seems larger today, as merchandise is sold and little replaces it. More of the dusty brown wood of the floor and shelves are exposed as customers drift in and out, picking at everything little by little. Hugo makes a valiant effort to keep up appearances; the place is meticulously clean and tidy, but I wonder what will happen when he has nothing left to sell.
My thoughts halt when I see Mads’s father across the shop. Immediately, my heart begins to race. He’s placing his meager purchases in his rucksack and doesn’t notice me approach.
“Excuse me, sir,” I venture, tapping him on the shoulder. He turns and does not look pleased to see me. The cursed girl his son spends too much time with. “I was wondering where…”
“Maddox has gone to the Bards.”
A tiny gasp escapes me. “Why?”
His father scratches his beard and sighs. “For you, I think.”
Me? Before the word leaves my mouth, or I can ask when he’ll be back, Mads’s father abruptly turns and leaves.
I stand there in shock until a customer nudges me roughly out of the way. I snap out of it and place the rice on one of the shelves.
“What’s she doing here?” I hear the woman hiss over the counter to Fiona as she pays for a small bag of prairie flour. “Hasn’t this charity gone on long enough?”
“Shae is our family now. This is her home too.”
The woman pays Fiona with an irritable sniff and leaves. When Fiona catches my eye at the door to the stockroom, I look at the floor. Shame burns my face. Because it’s true—her family has treated me like I am one of them, even when the rest of Aster wishes I had been found dead too.
But Mads went to the Bards on my behalf. I grow giddy at even the small promise of hope. Perhaps there exists some possibility for justice. If I wait only a little longer, everything will turn out right.
It’s certainly a noble thing to do. Perhaps I’ve been seeing him in the wrong light all along.
I could fall for a man who goes in search of justice on my behalf.
Suddenly, all the awful feelings that have been suffocating me begin to lift a little, making room for something else: a small fluttering in my chest. A wisp of faith.
“Shae, come look at this!” Fiona’s face brightens as she waves me over from behind the counter. In her hand is a delicate silver hair comb inlaid with colored glass. It looks like a butterfly caught in flight and catches the light when Fiona tilts it in her hand. That same wisp of faith allows me the simple joy of appreciating its beauty. “Miss Ines just traded this for a bag of prairie flour. Said it was in her family for six generations.”
“She must have already traded her manners,” I mutter, and Fiona giggles. My fingertips ghost over the comb. The delicate design is nowhere near as fine, but it reminds me a little of the bridle Ravod’s horse wore. I can’t help imagining what it would look like adorning my hair.
“Pa doesn’t like it when I trade for something purely decorative,” Fiona says, “but I couldn’t resist. It’s too lovely.”
“But it’s clearly expensive. Worth much more than a bag of flour.”
Fiona rolls her eyes and imitates Hugo’s deep, businesslike voice, which always makes me laugh. “People need things that are practical,” she says. Then, growing serious, “We can’t resell it. Anyone will look at this and say it’s not enough silver to make anything useful out of. They won’t care how beautiful it is.”
“You should hold on to it,” I say.
Fiona smiles quietly to herself as she admires the tiny comb. “Maybe just for now,” she says. “Even if there’s no occasion to wear it, it’s a nice reminder. We should hold on to beautiful things while we have them.”
Her words make me think of Ma. Her smile. Her gentle hands. Her warm embrace. The beautiful things I could not hold on to.
What would Ma do if she were here?
I take the comb from Fiona and fix it in her hair. It catches the light brilliantly from amongst the golden waves, like it was meant to be there.
I manage a smile. “Perfect.”
* * *
At the end of the day, Fiona is sweeping the shop floor before closing up. I stretch, my body aching from standing hours on end—it’s different work than farming but exhausting in its own way. I hide a yawn behind my hand as Fiona finishes dusting the counter and moves on to the shelves. I’m already fantasizing about curling up on my bedroll, closing my eyes and blocking out the rest of the world, when the shop door opens.
My stomach plummets to the ground.
“Constable Dunne, always a pleasure to see you!” Even I can hear the strain in Fiona’s voice as she steals a glance at me. Is this what I think it is?
Dunne tips his broad-brimmed hat to us. “Good evening, Fiona.” He doesn’t bother to turn to me. “Shae.”
This doesn’t bode well. I set my broom aside and approach him.
“Is there news?” I ask. “Did you find Ma’s killer?”
He fiddles with his hat, and I count the seconds until he finally looks at me. “That’s a dangerous word, Shae. We don’t know what happened that night. We can’t be leaping to assumptions.”
“Leaping to assumptions? I saw the dagger! There was blood all over the floor!”
“Now, Shae…”
“I don’t know what you’ve found or haven’t, but you need to keep looking.” My mind starts racing. Fiona comes to my side, putting an arm around my shoulder. “What about the tracks on the road? Or the dagger? Surely there must be…”
“Shae.” His voice is calm, but firm. “It’s over.”
Fiona squeezes my shoulder, but I wrench myself free, my eyes glistening with my unleashed rage. “I don’t understand. You promised me, Constable. On that day. You assured me.” False words. “I thought you were a man of your word. Or is that not the truth?”
Fiona gasps.
“Tread carefully, young one,” Dunne says through his teeth. “Perhaps our kindness has made you forget your place. You need to put this behind you.” Dunne places his hat back on his head. I reach for the broom handle so I can have something, anything, to hold on to. My knuckles flush bone white. “I know it’s hard. And it’s not what you want to hear. But nothing more can be done.” He turns on his heel to leave.
“So ‘justice’ in this town means giving up?” I call out to his back. “To simply lose hope?”