Page 28 of The Last One
I perch on the stool and rub my hands together to warm them. Reaching for the udder, I whisper, “I know we just met, darling, and I’m sorry about this. Just don’t kick me, okay?”
Her tail flicks, and she snuffles again—this time, a sigh.
I want a cow. Maybe I alreadyhavea cow and maybe I already have my own farm back where I’m from. Maybe I was charged with tending the livestock in our group.
And now for my last farm chore: bagging newly shorn wool into burlap sacks. The wool makes my hands itch. I liked tending to Molly much better.
Before I leave, Farmer Gery makes me turn out the pockets of my skirt. “I hear your kind likes to steal.” He tosses me my pay from the other side of the barn.
I catch it in my swollen hand.
One geld.
Are you fucking kidding me?
The daystar burns high in the sky by the time I leave Gery’s. The baking hard, dirt-packed roads haven’t softened even after the water from yesterday’s rain. In such bright light, Maford looks faded, like a memory disappearing moment by moment. The market is gone this morning—the wanderweavers must have packed up overnight and moved on to the next village.
The few townspeople out in this heat give me space, their hands trembling and their eyes filled with fear, preferring to take the long way around instead of walking beside me.
I search the sparse crowds for the tawny-skinned woman with the silver glow. She’s the only person, other than Jadon, who has talked to me with decency. I haven’t asked Jadon or Olivia about her, remembering Olivia’s warning about those who may use magic. She was so frightened, I didn’t want her to even think about another person using magic in town.
Still, I hope to see that woman again. Maybe she knows about Chesterby and Devour, the nomads who worship Kaivara, and people with hair the colors of mulberry and cinnamon.
“You there!” a man shouts. “Blue-dress stranger!” He stands in the shop doorway a few doors down, glowing amber like everyone else. He beckons me over. “You the one who has to pay a fine?”
I look across the way. There’s the school. This must be the candle shop. Still, I hesitate before saying, “Yes sir. I’m supposed to help you today.”
“Fine,” he mutters. “Follow me.”
I pause in my step, angry heat blooming on the back of my neck.Eleven geld,I remind myself. After taking a deep breath, I follow the man into a shop filled with candles and beeswax. But we don’t pause here. No, he leads me down a dark corridor and back out to a slowly dying garden of violets and goldenrod, foxglove and lavender.
Before the drought, this garden with all its color would’ve dropped me to my knees. Now, though, my gasp is not that of delight but regret. The garden and its five straw baskets buzz with fat bees that bumble from withering blossom to dead blossom.
In natural light, I see that the candlemaker’s an older man, and his face is misshapen and pink. “Bee stings,” he mutters, catching me staring. “Gotta admit: it’s nice to have someone else for these maggots to gape at.”
I surprise myself with a laugh. “Glad to be of service.”
“You are as lovely as they say,” he offers, his head bowed.
I stare at him. “Lovely aswhosays?” I’ve heard not one nice word outside of the Ealdrehrts’ cottage directed my way, spoken or thought. Is he just being agreeable?
His smile falters, his blush deepens, and he clears his throat. “Well, this is where all the magic happens.” He pauses, looking even more flustered. “Not magic-magic, I mean—”
I raise my hand and smile. “No need to explain. I understand your meaning.”
“Ever do any of this before?” he asks. “Beekeeping? Candle-making?”
No clue. So I shake my head. “But I’m eager to learn.”
“I’ve been Maford’s candlemaker all my life. My gardens used to spread all the way back there.” He points to the tree line of the forest. “But creatures kept knocking over the hives and stealing the honey. So I built this fence.” Tall wooden planks have been erected around the backyard. Iron spikes travel across the top of the barriers.
I shiver, thinking about the kind of creatures that would need to be kept out with spikes. “How can I help you today?” I ask. “Olivia told me—”
He flicks his hand. “I don’t care what Olivia says. I need you to help me dunk wicks into the melted beeswax. I’ll offer you two geld every four candles. You do the math.”
Twelve candles for six geld.
“Doesn’t seem like a lot of candles,” I say, shrugging. “Beware: I’ve never done this.”
