To him, the truth doesn’t matter enough to fight for.
But it matters. It has to.
“Mads…”
“Don’t.” He takes a small step back, followed by another. “You don’t have to explain anything. I should have known better.”
This isn’t what he wanted. He went to the Bards thinking their approval would please me. He thought we’d be making plans and promises. Instead, we’re standing on opposite sides of the dirt road in uncomfortable silence. Neither of us wants to give away how much we feel the ground crumbling beneath our feet.
I tell myself not to apologize again; it won’t help.
“I’m sorry,” I say anyway.
“Yeah.” He sighs. “Me too.”
Without another word, he turns and walks away. I watch him disappear into the darkness before covering my face with my hands. How did I manage to lose both Fiona and Mads in the same night?
Without Fiona’s comforting words, or Mads’s warmth, or Ma’s gentle hands to braid my hair, I’ve never felt so alone.
Thin, gray light crests the mountaintops. Dawn. Somehow this interminable night has come to an end. I feel a sigh of relief escape me. Cold air fills my lungs, solidifying my resolve.
I will not conveniently tuck the past away. Today, I follow the course I’ve charted for myself.
Swiftly, I cross the threshold into my old home. I look at the narrow rooms, the low walls, the tiny beds, the darkened hearth. The rooms have been cleaned. There is no trace of the violence that occurred. Who did this? The constable? Did he neaten things up out of kindness or to make it all vanish as if it had never happened?
Hardly breathing, I quietly move around the room, touching each surface, as if hoping some trace of Ma’s spirit will still be hovering here. The stillness feels ready to swallow me whole.
Finally, I step back out into the early light and head up the hill toward the north pasture. The entire flock of sheep is gone, as if it never existed, though I can smell the familiar scents of the barn. Wool and hay and worn leather. I realize with a start that the constable must have sold them off. It hadn’t even occurred to me to ask what he had done with them. Or whether those earnings should have been mine to collect. Worst of all, it never struck me to say goodbye to them.
One by one, I recite their names aloud into the dusty air of the barn. When I’m done, I close the barn door behind me and stare out over the town and to the nearby woods beginning to stir with the calls of birds.
“Wish me luck, Ma,” I whisper into the placid new morning. Wherever she is, I can only hope she’s listening.
8
By the time I reach the watchtower, sunlight has begun to break out over the roof, making it look like a torch burning away the darkness.
Aster only has a small volunteer militia, and they revolve reliably around two shifts, the morning and the night watch. Dunne likes being easy to find in case anyone needs him and sticks to a rigid schedule. If I squint, I can see the outline of his office, perched at the top of the watchtower.
With the streets empty, I am able to pass through town undisturbed. But even in the hour before the town awakens, I feel the weight of their eyes upon me. I pick up my pace, hurrying down the main street to the very edge of Aster.
Guards pace at the town limits, not more than fifty feet from the tower, monitoring the only road that leads in and out of town. I shiver and wrench open the iron door at the tower’s base. Inside is a narrow vestibule with steps leading upward; a few cobwebs and a half-full crate of supplies for the militia rest beneath the stairs. The air is dry and a little stale. I look up the spiral to the top. The watchtower seems even taller from the inside.
My fingers brush the wall to steady myself as I climb. Each time I round the corner, convinced I must have arrived, I find another twist in the stairs. There’s a small window slit for archers and crossbowmen at every level. When I venture a look outside, dizziness sweeps over me, along with an eerie feeling of power. This place is like the High House of Aster, watching us from an eagle’s perch.
Dunne must be able to see all the way to my house from the top, I think. My legs begin to ache, and sweat coats my neck from the heat inside. I’m beginning to wonder if the tower has a top at all, when I find myself deposited on a small landing.
I take a deep breath and knock on the door.
“Come in.” Dunne’s voice issues from inside. I push on the heavy door and it creaks open.
Dunne’s office is small and cramped, lit by four large windows, facing each cardinal direction. The eastern window is practically blinding from the newly risen sun. I squint as I enter. I can make out shelves and crates, a glass display case, and a few framed pictures on the walls.
“Well, this is unexpected.” Dunne’s brow furrows, and he rises from his seat. His weathered desk looks dull in the sunlight.
“Constable, I apologize for my intrusion,” I say, blinking rapidly until my eyes adjust. “I’ve had a few more questions since our … talk yesterday.”
Dunne’s lips press into a thin line. I half-expect him to refuse me.
“Yes, of course. It is my duty to dispel any doubts you may have.” Dunne gestures to a chair in front of his desk. “Please, sit.”
I take my seat and Dunne does the same.
“Now,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows, “what troubles you, Shae?”
“Well…” I trail off, finally getting a better look at my surroundings. The pictures on the wall are not pictures at all. I feel my skin crawl, like it’s ready to run out the door without the rest of me.
They’re paper, covered in ink.
Writing.
My gaze flies over the room, finding the same strange symbols on nearly everything. The display case is full of bottles of various shades of blue and black liquid. The shelves are packed with thin rectangular leather boxes. Cold terror creeps through my bones as I try to make sense of why Constable Dunne is stockpiling dangerous items.
“Shae.” Dunne’s voice makes my eyes snap back to his. My knuckles have turned white from gripping the wooden armrests of my seat. “Focus.”
“What … what is all this?” My voice is a shaky whisper.
“It’s contraband, Shae. I keep it on display so I know what to look for, and to help others identify writing if they claim they see it.”
I nod slowly, the ink on the walls tangling my thoughts. “How often do you find contraband?” The question escapes me before I’m certain I want to know the answer.
“Mercifully, less and less,” he says. “The Bards make a sweep every few months to claim the more dangerous items and destroy them. But you didn’t come all this way to discuss the contents of my office, did you?”
“No, sir.” I shake my head, forcing myself to concentrate. “I need you to reconsider closing my mother’s case.”
“I see.” Dunne steeples his fingers. “What happened to your mother was a tragedy. But I think it’s fairly open and shut, don’t you?”
I frown. “I beg your pardon?”
“These things happen, Shae.”
“These … things happen?” I repeat, dumbfounded. “Someone—” I almost say murdered again, but stop myself. “Someone wanted my mother dead!”