Page 41 of Last Rites

His smirk finally won out, though it looked more conspiratorial than malicious.

“I’m honestly impressed. Maybe you have what it takes to be a decent Shroud Warden after all. Given the proper motivation, of course.”

What Penny had said weeks ago echoed in the back of my mind. That Merrick wouldn’t kill him as long as he could be used to manipulate me. That it would always work. I’d known then that the part about me was true, at least about it always working. But now, I believed it all. Merrick didn’t see Penny as his half-brother so much as a tool he could use to control me. And I kept proving him right.

Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it did offer Penny some small protection.

“The only thing I must question,” Merrick continued, “is your good sense. I can’t fathom why you keep coming back here. You could have run. I would have sent people after you, of course, but you had a sizable headstart.” He folded his arms over his chest, and his eyes narrowed. “So why are you here, Kitingor?”

No longer seeing the point in deception, I told him, “We weren’t going to come back.”

Merrick arched a brow. “Then why did you?”

It occurred to me that the occupation of the farm in Eastcliff might have been yet another weapon in Merrick’s arsenal, knowledge withheld for a time when he felt I needed extra incentive to do as he said. For a moment, I thought to pretend we’d never seen the cultists there. Let him think he kept some secrets and watch his disappointment later when he couldn’t catch me off guard with a new threat.

But I was tired. I wanted this to be over so Penny and I could go home and collapse in our bed and forget the world for a few hours. He was the only respite I had, and I needed him now.

I sighed. “We went to Eastcliff and saw the extra hands you sent to help with tending the farm. Penny was less than appreciative.”

A flicker of surprise, then irritation, crossed Merrick’s face. He sniffed and looked down his nose at me.

“Well, a farm can’t run well under a silversmith. Warren needs guidance, and far be it from me to let the property fall into ruin while my half-brother is here. Even if he was all too ready to hand the property off to someone outside the family.”

Bitterness edged his tone, and he rose from the desk to pace toward the wall of windows overlooking the square as if he could escape the slip in his mask.

He stopped between the pair of armchairs there. “But that’s beside the point.” His eyes swept over the people scurrying about below, though he canted his head back toward me as he said, “I’m sure you have other places you could have gone.”

There were always other places to go, though not without the risk that the Bone Men would catch up to us. But that risk was only worth it if we didn’t leave anyone behind. What was the point of escaping the Bone Men if we lost our family, too? It had been selfish and cruel to make Rosie face that prospect when I thought I could only protect my own family. When I’d made it clear that I would choose them over those we left behind in Ashpoint if it came down to it.

There weren’t enough words of apology to ever make that up to her, but I intended to try.

Still, I wasn’t about to give Merrick more ammunition against us by telling him the truth.

“I have a job to do here”—I met his eyes, unflinching—“and I think it’s best I see it through.”

15

Penny

Aweek had passed since our return to Ashpoint, and Kit had yet to recover. He was aloof. Gone all day at work and, when he was home, he managed to still be away. Mentally, emotionally, he kept himself apart from me.

I was busier than ever. Cedric kept long hours at the smithy and insisted I was present for every one of them. His patience had long since run out, and he’d given up trying to keep his unkind thoughts to himself. My days were littered with his biting comments and sideways scowls, and it was all I could do to try in vain to please him.

All of it left me feeling lonely, living with the blacksmith’s scorn and sleeping next to Kit’s ghost.

I still wanted to help. My mother and sister. My intended. Myself.

But I didn’t know where to begin.

After seeing my family farm brought under the Bone Men’s control, I’d had too much to say. I didn’t think Kit couldn’t bear it, and I was loathe to add another burden to the weight steadily burying him, so I wrote it down.

I penned a letter. Then another. And a third.

I burned them all.

I sat on the floor in front of our hearth—a few feet back, of course—and pitched the wadded balls of paper into the flames. I watched them blacken and scorch and the ashes fly away, carrying the words farther than I could.

Long ago, I’d told Kit I felt like a curse. The imperfect son, unworthy of the legacy bestowed upon me. When my father willed the farm to me, I was overwhelmed. With sorrow. With guilt. With responsibility.