“It belongs to the brotherhood.”
“But not to a particular . . . brother?” She was so weary, and she hoped she would not be faced with a houseful of curious faces and questions.
“There is no one here anymore. Keeper Lem, who watched the sheep, lived here when the sheep grazed in the western meadows. It was too far to move them back to the temple grounds each day. But Lem is ill and old, and his days with the sheep are done,” the keeper said and pushed through the front door with complete confidence, helping Ghost across the threshold.
A straw mattress on a wooden frame was pushed against the wall, and Ghost stumbled toward it, too spent to do anything but wilt across it. She could hear the keeper moving around the small space and sometime later felt him roll her toward him. When she protested weakly, he reassured her with soft words.
“I am going to tend to your palm.”
She didn’t nod, but she didn’t fight him either. The water was cold and the wet cloth soothing, and when he was finished rinsing the blood and dirt from her hands, he wrung out the cloth and washed her face. Ghost jerked and ducked her chin, willing him to stop.
“Shh. Surely you know I will not hurt you,” he chided, wetting the cloth once more.
But he was hurting her. His kindness was like salt on raw skin. It would have been less painful if he’d struck her, and humiliating tears trickled down her cheeks and slipped between her lips. They were salty too, and the keeper sighed as he wiped them away.
“I will leave you here. There is water in the pail from a stream not too far from here and bread on the table. There’s a bit of oil in the lamp and some kindling on the hearth. I’ve made you a small fire, but only for comfort. The day is warm.”
She nodded but didn’t open her eyes.
“I will come back tomorrow with supplies. We will talk then.”
“Thank you,” she mumbled, and listened for him to leave.
“What should I call you?” he asked.
“Ghost,” she whispered, and let herself sink into oblivion.
She rose when dawn peeked through the crude window, lining the floor in thin strips of light. The keeper had not opened the makeshift wooden shutters, but the sun was a nosy stranger, and it found its way inside.
She filled the tin cup beside the pail three times before her thirst was quenched. She drank another cup after wolfing down the loaf of dry bread the keeper had left for her. The fire had gone out, but the sun was sufficient to warm the small room, and Ghost opened the shutters and acquainted herself with her surroundings.
She felt oddly restored, as if tears and tender ministrations had stitched some of her broken pieces back together. The stitches were loose, and her soul was still battered, but she no longer wished to cover herself in earth and cease breathing.
A wooden barrel, a table, two stools, three shelves, and a small pine chest were the only furnishings in the cottage, but there wasn’t room for much more. A blackened pot and a matching kettle sat empty on the simple hearth. Two wooden spoons sat nearby, and a bowl and a plate matched the tin cup she’d used upon awakening. Another pail, two small lumps of soap, and an assortment of folded rags rested on a shelf. Two blankets, a needle and some thread, a small sack of meal, and a chamber pot completed the sparse living space.
She found a broom fashioned from sticks and straw propped against the chest and swept the space clean, chasing out the spiders and destroying their handiwork.
A woven rug had been tightly rolled and shoved beneath the bed, apparently to keep it from collecting dust while the owner was gone. She dragged it outside into the sunshine, beat it until her shoulders ached, and lugged it back inside. It made the room immediately cozy, and Ghost smiled down at it only to grimace at her poorly shod feet. The cottage looked much better, but she looked worse. The state of her shoes could not easily be improved, but her dress, her cloak, her hair, and her hands were in dire need of a scrubbing.
With one of the pails and a bit of soap, she went in search of the stream. To her delight, someone or something had created a small dam in the stream big enough to form a pool for bathing. Without hesitation, she shucked her clothes, gritted her teeth, and submerged herself in the cold, clear water, dragging her dress down with her.
An hour later, her hair and her skin dripping, her thin dress a little thinner from the thorough scrubbing against the rocks, she climbed from the stream, donned her still-soiled cloak, and spread her dress and underthings over sun-warmed stones to dry. Then she headed back to the cottage with a pail of water in hand.
She had company, but it wasn’t the keeper. It was the boy—Bayr—and when he saw her, he nodded and hoisted the bundle at his feet. It was almost bigger than he was and knotted in such a way that he could sling it over his shoulder.
“F-f-for y-you,” he said, patting the bundle. His voice was low and pleasing, but he struggled to release his words. He followed her inside and eased the bundle back down beside the table, opening it without delay.
He pulled a blanket, an assortment of vegetables and dried meats, six apples, a pound of cheese, and several different spices from his pack. A loaf of bread was next, followed by a purple robe, two pairs of stockings, a plain white undershift, a skein of wool, a darning needle, a mirror, a brush for her hair, and a large flask.
He didn’t speak as he set each thing aside, though she sensed he had a thousand questions. She was too overwhelmed by the bounty to do more than stare at each item, her stomach growling and her tongue dry.
She cut off a hunk of the bread with her knife and handed it to him, not knowing what to do or say to put them both at ease. He seemed hesitant to take it, but she insisted, leaving her hand outstretched until he took it from her fingers. In trade, he handed her the horn slung across his chest.
She took a deep pull of the water and handed it back. She had water in a pail and didn’t need his flask, but he shook his head.
“Keep. F-f-for t-tending sh-sh-sheep.”
She frowned, not understanding, but kept the flask.
“W-who who who—” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Who a-are . . . you?”
“No one,” she muttered.
He wrinkled his nose at her response. He patted his chest.
“Bayr.”
“I know who you are. You are the Temple Boy.”
He sighed as though he did not like the name. She did not like her name either.
He leaned toward her, tentative, clearly worried he would scare her. Then he touched her hand. “Why s-s-so wh-white?” he murmured.
“I don’t know. I was born this way. Why are you so strong?”
“B-b-blessed?” He said it like he wasn’t certain, and she laughed, charmed.
“You are blessed. I am cursed. And neither of us got to choose which.”
“G-g-ghost?” he asked. The keeper must have told him her name, though the boy seemed doubtful about it.
“That is what I’m called,” she said.
He wrinkled his nose again. “N-not name?”
“I don’t really have a name. So I suppose Ghost is as good as any.”
He looked frustrated, as though he wanted to press the issue further, but the exercise took too much effort.
“The keeper . . . Who is he?” she asked instead.
“M-my u-uncle.”
“What is his name?”