Samuel nodded, and his father went outside.
Samuel’s heart beat rapidly as he draped his jacket’s hood over his head and followed, his boots crushing the snow below. His father’s touch still burned on his skin. Why did he touch him? Something must have made him terribly afraid. He looked up. The afternoon sun shone brightly all around, so much so that he could nearly feel the warmth on his garments. He’d put on his gloves, but he didn’t need them. The wind was still, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky; it was by far the warmest day they’d had in months.
They rode the jeep through the neighborhoods and down into the town square. The shops in the square were open and busy. Passing between the shops on opposite ends, Samuel could see clearly through the shops’ glass windows. The baker gathered sacks of wheat from his shed, yelling curses to some invisible presence. The tailor took measurements for a customer. The postman sorted through the pile of fresh mail scattered across his desk, a pair of chained spectacles draped around his neck. The blacksmith, a dark-skinned foreigner with burly arms, was hammering away at a slate of smoldering steel. The inside of his open shed glowed red from the roaring furnace. He wore a long apron and heavily tinted goggles, looking almost like a creature from another world. He was more than likely building more tools for the loggers: axes, saws, chains, and hooks. Whatever they needed. He occasionally made knives and other such items for the townspeople, which he sold at a fair price. His shop was where his father had gotten the hunting knife. He’d bartered a pile of chopped firewood and an old pocket watch for it. But despite the blacksmith’s incredible talents, Haid was a logging town. The blacksmith’s priority was to supply the workers with chopping, cutting, and hauling equipment. That was the business that kept him fed.
Samuel noticed the butcher’s shop was closed. “Where are we headed?”
“The jailhouse,” Charles said. “You’ve seen it before, right?”
He scratched his leg, glancing at his father. “No.”
The jailhouse was a relic from before the blackout; there was no telling how many hundreds of years old it was. The old building was constructed of cracked stone and a tiled roof. There was one barred window visible on the left side. The whitelands had very few stone buildings because quality stone was expensive and a poor conductor of heat. Unless specifically employed by the wealthy elite, masonry was no longer a practical trade, especially in the whitelands.
A crew of patrolmen stood guard outside of the jailhouse, their arms cradling rifles and their expressions blank. When Samuel’s father hopped out of the seat, he whispered a prayer of protection. It did nothing to ease Samuel’s nerves. What if it was some sort of trap, some elaborate scheme to capture his father without making a public scene? His father had trusted the Litten woman, believing she would take their secret to the grave. But any citizen touching a cleric was an unforgivable sin. Perhaps she simply reported the offense without hesitation, fearing what might happen if the secret would be discovered.
Locks from behind the steel door jingled before it opened. The sheriff leaned against the doorway for support, his breath reeking of liquor. His thumb caressed the revolver suspended from his belt. His lips scrunched. “Why’s the kid here?”
“Me?” Charles asked.
“No, idiot. Him.” The sheriff pointed to Samuel. “Get him out of here.”
Samuel’s chest burned. His father remained unreadable, his eyes forward.
“Eugene,” Charles said with forced authority. “I don’t know who you think you’re talking to. The mayor, your boss, is my father. If he’s got a problem, he’ll deal with me. You’re just a stupid sheriff. You can’t give me orders. If you’re lucky, one day I’ll be giving you orders.”
The sheriff grumbled inaudibly as he eased his hand away from the revolver. “To hell with it.” He stumbled back inside the jailhouse and left the door open.
Charles shrugged. “Lazy drunk. Come on.”
The room was small and fairly empty, lighted only by a lone candle burning on top of a desk. A rack of firearms and various weapons had been mounted to the side of the wall: handguns, rifles, knives, swords, hooks, and a variety of miscellaneous tools with sharp blades. Samuel knew what was done to lawbreakers. Months before, a logger attempted to organize his coworkers and demand higher wages from the state. It didn’t take long for the man to be arrested, tried, and found guilty by the mayor for rebellion and conspiracy to incite violence. The logger’s funeral was open casket, the pieces of him reassembled in a nonsensical way. Samuel saw the body with his own eyes. His father performed the rites.
Mayor Thompson sat in a cushioned chair behind the desk, his body hunched over and his teeth gnawing on the end of a wooden smoking pipe. He was the only man in town who smoked, as far as Samuel knew, because he was the only one who could afford southern tobacco. A velvet handkerchief poked out from his breast pocket, and a gold chain hung around his fuzzy neck. His round belly bulged out over his trousers. He read through a stack of shuffled papers, his forehead tight. His blond hair was slicked back and combed.
“He’s here,” the sheriff said.
The mayor straightened his neck. He grinned as he sucked on the pipe’s stem. He guided the pipe away from his mouth and blew out a giant ring of smoke. The smell of burning earth filled the room. “Cleric,” he said. “So glad you could join me.”
Samuel’s father bowed. “It’s my duty to serve.”
“Knew he’d say that,” the sheriff said before spitting.
The mayor pointed his pipe to Samuel.
“You must be the son. I didn’t know you were coming, but you are most welcome. I’m certain your father will need all the assistance he can get.” He waved at Charles. “You can go now.”
Charles frowned, his voice unsteady.
“But I thought Samuel would come with me and—”
“Pick up some parchment before you head to the estate. Should have arrived at the post office today. If not, someone will get an earful.”
Charles pouted his lips. He shrugged and, without looking at Samuel, left the jailhouse.
The mayor rose from behind the desk. The sheriff sluggishly stepped ahead, moving down the dark hallway and on toward the cell. The mayor cleared his throat before proceeding forward. Samuel and his father followed the mayor, staying several paces back. The rhythm of their footsteps echoed down the stone walls.
“This conversation will never leave this building,” the mayor said as they came into the cell room. “Anything you witness here is not to be shared with another soul. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the consequences if you fail to do so.”
“I am a servant,” his father said. “Azhuel has taught me humility and submission. I will remain silent as instructed.”
The mayor chuckled to himself. “We shall see about your god.”
Rusty steel bars divided the poorly lit room into two halves, with one side for the prisoner. Directly underneath the only window sat a little girl with thick red hair, the strands flowing down her back in large ringlets. Her milky skin was nearly as pale as the snow, and her arms and limbs almost too thin. Brown freckles decorated the tip of her nose and spread out across her cheeks. Steel chains shackled her tiny ankles to the stone wall behind her. She wore a ruffled black dress that flared at the hem, the ends stopping well above her knees. The fabric of the dress seemed thick and multilayered, which was great for insulation, but the length of it was far too short to be practical for wear during the winter months. The girl’s right leg was wrapped in a thick layer of frayed gauze. She was missing half of her left arm, the stub several inches below her elbow.