Page 27 of Deadly Maiden

This last thing I must do before I leave Bollingham—write them a note.

Dear Rhuy, Tomas, and Tiera,

I tap the butt of the pen on my chin. This farewell should also be about wishing them well and hoping we can see each other again. I nod and keep writing. Because that is my priority. Friends. Keeping in touch. Since we can write to each other, surely? Good things. Smiling, I draw a deep and wonderfully freeing breath. That’s my future, and I will make it so.

Not revenge. Not killing anyone. I want a good life, and I refuse to travel the dark road of vengeance for what has happened.

The bookseller’s cart waits outside the rear of the storehouse. It’s red with a painting on the side showing books tumbling about among blue-and-white flowers, and a sign declaring,Books, Books, Books. I approve of this.

I shake hands with Bethy and Fiorn, the owners, who will be driving from the seat up front, then I climb the three back steps and settle myself on the padded seat inside. I drop the rucksack to the floor, carefully place the box.

Fiorn gives me a thumbs-up and slowly sets about unhooking and closing the doors.

“Don’t worry, love. We stop regularly so you can stretch your legs and so on. First town we sell at is a day and a bit away. Your man will meet us there.” She gestures at the books secured on the concertinaed shelves to left and right. “Find a good read. It’ll pass the time.” Then she points at the top shelves, though I don’t understand why. What is up there?

I return her thumbs-up as the doors click shut then hear a latch locked down. How does one read in the dark? It’s thick black in here. I feel for the books to either side, reassuring myself as to the space I have to move in. It’s not much, but I can breathe.

I blink and try to discern something, anything. There is a pale grayness, here and there.

I guess I could force my way out if I must. I hope so. Imagine being locked in here if it was set on fire.

Stop that.

The cart rocks, grinding over the town’s streets then tilting and bumping as we negotiate the exit ramp.

I can hear the women talking, the clatter and clink of harness, the clop of hooves, the squeak of the axles.

It dawns on me that I can see—the moon is sneaking in through gaps beneath the eaves of the roof. Ahhh, there is a winding handle. On both sides. Is that what she pointed to? I stand and try one. As I turn it, an outer shutter lifts, letting in more of that moon. A long slit of window is revealed that runs almost the length of the cart. It will be dawn in an hour too. I do the same on the other side.

Now I can read.Yesss.I need this. I really fucking need this.

The box? Not yet. I’ll wait for daylight.

I pull down a few volumes and grin as I find I have in hand a copy ofBest Parenting for the Modern Fae.

This one is on Landos’ shelf.Was on.

Though it must still be there. Who will live in our house now? Will anyone work the smithy? What will happen to our possessions? I pray Thander Munk has the kindness to store everything away for us, or for Landos anyway. He is the one whomightbe able to return to Bollingham.

For me to return and live there? Me, the detested necromancer, expert at I don’t know what? Badassery and forging so-so swords? Me, who has done nothing wrong…

I’d have to assassinate the current ruler, King Madlin Darsh, Aos Sin fae and immortal. Probably along with his queen.

And then everyone would be extremely unhappy with me. For some reason, this starts me grinning then laughing. I sit on the floor and silently heave and hiccup with laughter for ages until it dies away. My ribs are aching.

I sigh, feeling strangely empty but content, as if I laughed away many of my burdens. I open the book. Better Parenting?

Who knows? One day I might have a little sassy, snotty, fool of a child, just like me.

From the rear corner of the cart, a piece of the dead blackness detaches and slinks toward me. It’s Anathema.

“I could feel you in here.” I reach down to pat his round head with the stubby bumps of not-really-hair on the top. His eyes are the only white part about him, but he often keeps them as the thinnest of slits.

Anathema springs onto my lap and lies there, lazily draped over my knee, his arms and legs dangling to opposite sides. He’s blacker than the darkest spot in here, but it is the truth—I can feel him. The size of a rabbit or a cat, he can smoosh himself into small spaces and adapt to their structure, but I made him, and thus I tend to know when he’s nearby.

If he emerges and Rorsyd sees him, will I be in trouble? He is the one necromantic part of me that I’ve truly manifested. He was lumped together from the leftovers of the dead part of that puppy’s leg—extracted after I made a splint around the bone. That was an interesting day. It was…I think back…it was like sculpting clay with my mind, in a spot I could only imagine. Ruckus healed the break in his leg and what was left of my internal splint simply evaporated, as far as I could tell.

A month later, Ruckus tried to bite a few visitors at the market, but that was not due to necromancy. It was due to him being a nasty, antisocial mutt.

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