Page 25 of Last Rites

He looked at me over the bump of his hairy nose, and his lips curved downward. I could imagine a hundred reasons for his immediate disdain. I was hardly the image of confidence, and I didn’t fit the profile for a smith. I didn’t have strong shoulders like Kit, built more wiry and lean, and he would soon learn I didn’t have the knowledge of a smith, either.

Still, he clasped my hand with his gloved one and gave it a bone-crushing squeeze.

“Cedric,” he grunted.

After a single pump up and down, he seemed ready to release me, then glanced down instead. His gaze halted on the hand he held captive, and I could imagine what he thought then, too. My skin was discolored and mottled with scar tissue from those old, old burns. Pink and white like webbing that mangled every digit and stretched halfway up my arms.

Everyone noticed it, but it always surprised me when someone was bold enough to comment.

“What’s all this?” Cedric raised my arm to the muted light.

My next breath went stale in my chest.

Maybe this was a good thing. I could explain my trepidation around the forge. My fear of fire. Maybe Cedric would be kind about it. Patient, like Kit had been.

“I… got burned,” I hedged, unsure how much he wanted to know.

He snorted. “Did you stick your damn hand in the coals?” Scoffing again, he glanced at my other hand clutching the bag of baked goods. His eyes went wide. “Both of ‘em?”

My cheeks warmed, and I ducked my head. “No, it wasn’t… I wasn’t a smith then.”

I wasn’t a smith now, either. Nor a farmer. Kit had said I could be a baker in Forstford, but that felt so far away now…

“Just unlucky, then,” Cedric grunted.

It wasn’t a question, more of a statement, and it felt apt enough given the events of the past few days that I didn’t argue.

“I suppose so.”

Cedric harrumphed and dropped my arm. “What’s that?” He stabbed a gloved finger at the bag I held.

“Oh!” Startling to awareness, I hurried to unwrap the paper. “I brought… breakfast?” I held out the tarts. The sight of them made my mouth water, but Cedric looked less than impressed.

“Haven’t you eaten?” he asked.

Kit tried to convince me to have at least a bit of oatmeal to settle my anxious stomach, but I’d gone without, anticipating something sweet and comforting from Rosie’s stand. That hope slowly faded at the sight of Cedric’s scorn.

“No, sir,” I mumbled.

“Well, ya should’ve,” he said. “We’re here to work, not eat. Put ‘em away.”

Sheepish, I refolded the paper carefully, tucking the tarts out of sight behind my back. “Maybe for lunch, then?” I asked, but my voice was small, and Cedric was turning away, so he likely didn’t hear.

The loss of his attention brought a bit of relief as I headed to the workbench at the back of the shop. My leatherworking supplies were there, a safe distance from the forge and the heat of the coals. I set the baked goods down and was about to take a seat on the stool when Cedric called after me.

“What’re you doing?”

I flinched and turned, caught beneath his stern stare.

Wordlessly, I gestured to the pile of hide and tanned leather awaiting my hands. He made a rough sound in his throat, then jabbed a thick finger toward a teetering stack of metal miscellany I could only assume was work orders that had accumulated while Kit and I were in Eastcliff.

Cedric didn’t stop watching me until I gave a nod and slunk closer, the smell of charcoal and scorched metal growing stronger with every step I took toward where he loomed by the anvil.

“I was told you’d been apprenticing since the fall,” he said, his eyes never leaving the piece he was hammering.

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

He grunted again. “I’d wager you can manage this after that amount of time.”