Page 39 of The Verdant Cage
“The handle,” he says, pointing at it. “You turn it and then pull. When it’s not locked, that is. And it’s always locked.” He cocks his head. “Why were you looking for census materials?”
I clasp my hands in front of me, willing my heart to stop racing. It’s not a crime to reach for a handle. Is it? “Misia assigned me to help,” I say.
The blood drains from David’s face. “Does Jarek know?”
I don’t know what to make of that question. Shouldn’t he be more concerned that he wasn’t asked first? “I assume so.”
David rubs a hand over his face, sighing. “Things used to be clearer around here, didn’t they?” His hand falls, and he meets my eyes, something unguarded and uncertain in the way he looks at me. “What do you think Kirby would do in my position, if he were still around?”
My mouth opens and then closes. Why is he bringing up my dad?
“Never mind,” David says, smiling sadly. “The Record Keepers can always use extra help during a census.”
I’m still poised in front of the vault. There’s no getting into it, not with David standing there. “I should be going,” I say. “I’ll return tomorrow.”
He offers me tea as a courtesy, but I can’t escape the cottage fast enough. Iwillaccess that vault, but because I need a key, I now also need a plan. Convincing Simon to let me in—just as Jonas had—seems my best bet, but it’ll have to wait.
I make my way to the Apothecary cottage to check on Gran and am about to knock when I decide instead to peek through the window. Aunt Florence and Uncle Richard are nowhere in sight, likely out completing their rounds. There’ll be mountains of work for them with only two functioning Apothecaries. I suspect they’ll be first on the list if a child is orphaned or born into an already-crowded House. Both are rare occurrences, but they happen.
Gran’s sleeping in her chair in front of the fireplace. I gauge her breath. It’s easy and rhythmic. I don’t want to wake her, though I’m suddenly desperate to share that I think I may have a chance to make friends. Telling her about Gryphon’s training group will only make her worry, though. The fewer people who know, the better.
Gryphon.
My mind drifts back to this morning. I know I have bigger things to worry about, but the image of him rejecting me in front of everyone is seared into my brain. Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop me from remembering how good he looked while doing it. Jerk.
I walk to the Tzu home, head down. Sundays used to be my favorite day of the week. We rarely had free time in the Apothecary House, but the fact that most everyone else did gave the village a celebratory feel. I pass elderly Eudora of the Astronomer House peering up at the sky, her silver hair catching the sun rays like a halo, and I smile at gentle Tomas from the Animal Farmer House, leading his goats with calm surety. These people—my people—go about their daily lives like the world isn’t falling apart around them. The thought of losing any of them, of that killer taking another person I care about, makes something fierce and protective rise in my chest. I pick up my pace, jaw set with new determination. Whoever’s doing this won’t get the chance to hurt anyone else. I won’t allow it.
“Hello?” I ask, stepping inside the Tzu cottage. The smell of rotting food greets me, seemingly stronger than it was when we left for the funeral this morning. “Is anyone here?”
Silence.
I’m between Houses. The census work won’t start until tomorrow, I’m too jumpy to read a book, and Jonas, my only confidant, is gone.
There’s only one thing left to do.
The kitchen is the heart of your House, and only when your heart is healthy can the rest of you thrive.
That’s what Mom said when she taught Jonas and me to put up food.
She and I had the same large eyes, though mine are dark amber where hers had been blue. An identical square jaw and strong chin. A mouth with a bow-shaped top lip and plump bottom. The features came together better for her, though, just as they did on Jonas. She’d been the most striking woman in the Valley. Folks couldn’t help smiling at her when she walked through town. I expect some had been jealous, but like Jonas, Henrietta Allgood was so friendly that it was impossible to dislike her for long.
The past few years had been rough for her and me. We were in perfect sync in the greenhouse, but outside of the Apothecary work, we squabbled over the littlest things. I can’t dwell on how much I regret that now. If I give into the remorse, it’ll incapacitate me.
Instead, in her honor, I will clean this filthy kitchen.
I think of her rich laugh as I empty the cupboards, stacking everything—food, dishes, cleaning and canning supplies—on and around the kitchen table. After the cupboards are empty, I fill the largest pot with water and set it to boil to sterilize the canning jars. I fill the sink next, preparing warm, soapy water to disinfect every kitchen surface. It takes changing the water three times, but finally the cabinets, counters, and stove are clean. Once the pot is boiling, I drop in the jars and fill the sink a fourth time to wash the dishes. By the time I’ve dried them and returned them to a sensible location—cooking utensils by the stove, cups over the sink, plates near the table—the jars are sterilized.
I dig through the stack of vegetables. The carrots I didn’t use last night can be cleaned and preserved, as can the potatoes if I cut away the black spots. A whole basket of beets is in good shape. The beans have gone dry, but they’ll work fine in a soup once I remove their hulls. Of nearly two dozen ears of corn, only three are edible. Not enough to can, so I’ll use them for dinner. The acorn squash, onions, and garlic are fine, once I brush off the dirt that’ll rot them if left. The cucumbers are good for nothing but compost. Same with the tomatoes, which are buzzing with small black flies. It hurts to waste so many vegetables, but no loom weaves by wishing, so I haul the spoiled food to the muck pile out back and set to work putting up what I can.
I peel, rinse, and pack the potatoes, beets, and carrots into separate jars, pour boiling water to just a fingertip’s width below their rims, then seal them tight before placing them gently in the kettle of bubbling water. While they seal, I sift through the grains. I throw out a whole bag of oat flour crawling with worms, but the wild rice is fine, as are the rolled oats and a sack of cricket flour. I seal the salvageable grains as well as the shucked dried beans in sterilized jars.
The goat and sheep milk cheeses I discover are so tough that they’re no longer good for eating with bread, but they’ll work wonderfully to add flavor and creaminess to other dishes. Same with the mushrooms, which I brush off and store in a cloth sack. A jar of currants is still edible, as are the dried wild plums and sour cherries the Tzus were allotted. I locate a small cloth bag of biltong—sheep or goat, I can’t tell—that’s in good shape. There’s no bread to save; I suspect that’s what the Tzus have largely been eating. Of the fourteen brown eggs I gathered from multiple corners, eight of them sink in cold water. I throw out the six that float.
I leave their medicines for last. Every villager is supplied with comfrey and echinacea salve for cuts and scrapes, arnica balm for sore muscles, white willow bark tablets for fevers and headaches, and dried mint to settle stomachs. I see the Tzus also have Veronal crystals, which used to be available from the Chemist House for those who had particular trouble sleeping. Each house is also given an allotment of flaxseed oil and aromatic herbs to make shampoo and body soap, and extra herbs for cooking.
The Tzus have all their ingredients in a jumble, the shampoo unprepared, the processed items unopened.Does my soon-to-be husband stink? I don’t think so.They must be stretching out whatever they have in their bathing room.
I remove the jars of preserved vegetables from their bubbling water, feeling the deep satisfaction I always do at thepop!of the lids, signaling they’re sealed and will keep for years.
