Page 17 of Null & Void

Lunch is smoked mutton sandwiches—from the same sheep as yesterday—with a thick spread of butter on dark bread. And apricots. I almost fall over when Mama asks if I want to pick the apricots. I eat six straight from the tree and then sit down at the base to eat one more while truly savoring it. Apricots are my favorite fruit, and I haven’t had one for so many revolutions. I’m not even sure why.

I set the basket of apricots on the kitchen table for Mama just as Frankie calls me into her sewing room. On top of her table sits a pile of leather and my interest is immediately piqued.

“Here, try these on,” Frankie says with not a small amount of childlike excitement, handing me some new boots, recycled from my old pair. They fit comfortably, tying up to the middle of my calf. It means rearranging the way I carry the knives strapped to my ankles, but it’s worth it.

Next is a rogue underbust corset, laced up in the front for ease with small pauldrons on the shoulder straps. The leather is soft and comfortable and—despite the tightness—breathable. The best part is that all of the hidden sheathes and pockets for my throwing knives are much more accessible now.

Lastly, Frankie grabs a strange pouch that supposedly connects to the straps of the corset. Looking at it, I don’t comprehend its function. It’s thin and soft, with a divider lengthways through it, creating two pockets. A flap covers the center portion leaving the edges open. She turns me around and shows me where the attachments are hidden under the pauldrons. It’s comfortable, and I can barely feel it.

Until she sits something heavy into it.

“Reach both your hands back over your shoulders,” Frankie instructs, with excitement coloring her voice.

I reach back, and my hands hit the distinct wooden handles of my hatchets. Gripping on to one in each hand, I lift them up and out with ease. The flap moves out of the way so the hatchets don’t clang together, and both are quickly in my hands and ready to fight.

“We have a sturdy tree outside…” Frankie says, with a mischievous glint in her eyes as she waggles her eyebrows in suggestion.

“Yes, please!” I squeak, as I spin on my heels. Frankie’s chuckle follows me as I sprint outside.

I practice, over and over. Pulling them out faster, while running, standing, or only one-handed. I almost scream when, during a forward flip, I pull them out of the pocket and lodge one firmly into the tree I was aiming at. Frankie claps for me and blows me a double-handed kiss before leaving me to play with my new toys alone.

Eventually going inside, I find Frankie back in her sewing room.

“Thank you. Thank you endlessly. I don’t think I can truly express my gratitude for this. How can I repay you?” I ask.

“Your strap patterns are innovative Mika. If you’re sure I can have them, I’d love to release a new line of products named after you, based on your designs.”

“They’re all yours!” I beam. I’d give her a thousand strap designs for this.

“So…I wasn’t finished…” Frankie says cryptically. I look at her and then at the pieces of leather in her hands, once again not comprehending. “Pull out your hatchets and I’ll show you.”

I place both weapons on the bench beside her. She grabs one piece of the leather and slides it over the dangerously sharp edge of one hatchet, and then over the butt, snapping it closed with a small clasp. Guards. They’re leather guards. I pick up the newly guarded hatchet, shaking it about, swinging it, and hitting it into myself gently. It’ll still hurt, and I’ll have to temper my blows, but now I’ll be able to spar without mortally wounding anyone or myself.

It’s almost too much. Frankie is watching with pride written all over her face at her work, as she should. But I don’t understand why all this effort. For me.

“Why?” I ask her, trying to swallow the emotions bubbling up that I don’t understand.

“Why not, Mika?” is all she says before kissing me on the forehead and walking out the door, yelling, “You’re welcome!”

So much forced affection. Yet it might just be the best day I’ve had in revolutions. I can’t wipe the smile off my face.

Just as I decide to head inside, the gang arrives back from their trip to the market.

“Is that big smile for me, or my package?” Riley asks me from behind his armload, a smirk on his lightly freckled face. I drop my smile and roll my eyes dramatically, putting my hands out toward Bitty to relieve them of some of their haul.

I help Mama prepare dinner again, and afterward, she tells me wild stories of Frankie as a kid while I help with the dishes. When everyone else has gone to sleep, Mama tells me how her husband died in a tragic logging accident that devastated the community. Fortunately, it was a couple of revs after they reunited with Beans, so they were able to have some time together.

She forces me to bed, yet again, and I can see why everyone calls her Mama. I sleep spooning my guarded hatchets, just because I can. I am not plagued by nightmares, and Riley stays in his own bed.

In the morning, Tovi is yanking on my foot asking if I’m washing my hair today since it’s our last morning here. Which, of course, I am. What I didn’t realize, was that Mama washes everyone’s hair. All of us. One after the other. With a delicious honey-smelling soap. Bitty gets their undercut tidied up before getting their hair washed too. Beans’ head is shaved last, along with a tidy-up of his beard and mustache.

I look at Riley in wonder and confusion while we towel our hair, and he simply shrugs his shoulders with a smirk, mouthing, “I told you so.” He tries to hold my eye for far too long, and I look away not wanting it to reach an abhorrent peak. Plus, I can’t read him. At all.

He’s freshly shaven, highlighting the strong jaw on that square face of his. Chiseled. What a cliché way to describe someone, but that’s what he is. Jaw, nose, arms…I wonder if the rest of his body matches, having not yet seen him undressed. Yet? Thinking of him undressed sends my rage into a flurry which propels me to standing, earning myself a quizzical look from Riley. Great. The memory of me poking my tongue out at him bubbles up uninvited, and I leave the room for fear of further embarrassing myself.

Tovi and I sit in the sun to let the wind and warmth finish drying our hair. She’s stiff and not one for conversing with me, but I try my luck anyway. “What’s your Gift? Can I know?”

I assume it’s something impressive—a Gifted fighter, fast runner, or something equally important—that would make Nemoris bid in for her purchase and for her to join this mission to save the princess.

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