Page 24 of Last Rites

It was hard to breathe again, and I wanted desperately to flee, but Klaus was speaking, and I forced my attention off the abomination before me and back onto him.

“You will be assisting with the grinding of bones and forming of bricks and assembling the remaining pieces of the Vessel,” he said. “This will be your focus.”

If this was what I was going to spend all day every day doing, that put me even farther from Penny, and out of reach of Merrick, as well. I might as well have been in another world.

“This can’t be all of my responsibilities,” I insisted. “I know what a Shroud Warden does, Klaus.”

He sighed in irritation. “These are the responsibilities the Right Hand has entrusted you with.”

He motioned me forward as he crossed to where an older woman sat beside the pool. Her graying hair was pulled back in a short braid, and she splashed a bit of water on her wrinkled face. When she turned toward us, I recognized her as someone I’d seen around town long before my escape at seventeen, though I didn’t know her name.

Klaus gestured between the woman and me. “Philippa, this is⁠—”

“Kit Koesters,” she broke in. A smile lit her face and she pushed up to her feet and offered her hand. “Philippa Blume. It’s good to finally meet you face to face.”

I took the offered shake, trying not to think of the bone dust caked in the creases of her palm as it pressed against mine. The sensation was enough to make me nauseous.

“Philippa has been doing this for decades,” Klaus continued, “so she will be instructing you on how to do it properly.” He fixed me with a pointed look. “As far as you’re concerned, when you’re in these caverns, she outranks you. Her word is law, and you will follow it.”

“Understood,” I muttered.

Without another word, Klaus turned and went back out the way we’d come.

Philippa’s hand rested on my bicep, and when I turned my attention back to her, she smiled softly. There were crinkles around her brown eyes and at the corners of her mouth, and up close I was reminded that her hair had once been a few shades lighter than my own. It was mostly overtaken by gray now, with a few darker streaks remaining. She was tall—a few inches shorter than me, about Penny’s height—and she held herself with far more confidence than even I could muster in that moment.

“It’s an honor to work with you, Mister Koesters.”

It was still a struggle not to flinch at that name. “Kit, please. Just Kit.”

She patted my arm. “Of course. I always hoped you would succeed your father someday, you know. You may not be the Right Hand, but you’ll be doing the necessary work to bring your father’s vision to fruition.”

My jaw ticked, and I hoped she didn’t notice the disgust that washed over me at the thought of facilitating the widespread torment that my father wanted for the world. I would die before I actually helped that along. I might be stuck here working alongside one of my father’s loyalists, but that wouldn’t stop me from doing everything in my power to sabotage what I could.

Somehow, I would find a way to make sure that Vessel never held a god for as long as I drew breath.

“I’m glad to be here,” I lied.

Philippa’s smile widened, and she looped her arm through mine. “Well then, let’s put you to work.”

9

Penny

Rosie had made pecan tarts using the last of the fall crop. Pecans held fond memories for me, reminding me of the first kiss I stole from Kit. That blush of hope and the beginning of something wonderful. I was trying to have hope now that this new endeavor in the forge would be wonderful, or at least tolerable. So, I took the tarts as an omen.

Also, I was not above bribery, so I grabbed a few extras as a gift for the new smith. I didn’t know of anyone who could be grouchy when treated with sweets. It wasn’t possible.

Turning up at the blacksmith stall felt like entering a new place. It looked the same as we’d left it weeks ago, but the atmosphere had changed. It was heavier. Harder to push through. And so very hot.

Sweat beaded at my hairline as I stepped into the shop. I willed my mouth to smile and my hands to steady as they gripped the brown paper package containing the tarts.

Everything was in its place, tools hung on racks, charcoal stacked to feed the fire, and the barrels of water and quenching oil standing by. It wasn’t a large space, so I’d barely entered before I was noticed by the barrel-chested man lording over the anvil.

He was middle-aged and scruffy. No, more than that: wooly. Hair came from everywhere. On his head and along his jaw, matching brown curls spilled over the collar of his shirt, and a few rogue strands peeked out of his nostrils as they flared. He looked down at me, and I wondered if he was some relation of Anders. I barely came up to his shoulder.

“Can I help you?” he rumbled in a voice as big as he was.

I coughed, not clearing anything but the clutch of my nerves as I adjusted my bundle of baked goods and extended a hand. “Penwell,” I said, cursing the crack in my voice. “I’m the… your… apprentice?”