Page 30 of The Last One
What a lovely prayer from such an uncomplicated man.
A thought strikes me like a spark in the dark, but I wait for him to finish his prayer to this Guardian, this gentle Lady of the Verdant Realm.
“I have an idea,” I say. “What if you add flower petals to the melted wax? That way, there’s scent, like lavender, for example, as the candles burn?”
His eyes light up, and he hustles over to his garden. A moment later, he brings back sprigs of lavender, crushing them before dropping them into the cauldron of wax. “If this works—”
“Itwillwork. If not, there’s no risk in trying.”
He takes a whiff of the lavender warming in the pot. “People may even pay a little bit more for these. If it works—”
“Stop saying ‘if,’” I say, laughing. “Not only will your candles smell nice, but they’ll be beautiful to behold. Your customers won’t know how you’ve done it. They’ll call you genius.”
“And I will give all the glory to you,” he says.
“Just give me a free candle.” I lower a wick into the melted wax. “Soon, word will spread that the candlemaker in Maford has breathed new life into candles. You’ll make a lot of geld.”
“You answered my prayers.” His mouth tightens, and his lips quiver. Tears brighten in his eyes but never fall.
I help him make these new candles, smiling as the aroma of lavender wafts around us. I’m sad once we’ve finished. My time with Jamart is over, and I must move on to my next task.
“I should go,” I say. “I’m to stop by the church to polish candelabras and pews.”
“You?”he asks, eyebrows scrunched.
“Me,” I say. “I’m happy to report that my time here has been the most pleasant since arriving in Maford.”
Jamart’s smile is as bright as his honey as he leads me back down the corridor, stopping in the sitting room. “Almost forgot,” he says, holding up a finger. “Please give me a moment.” He rushes to the pantry.
I wander the dim space. Something in the corner of the room catches my eye. It’s hard to see at first, but as I slip closer, I find that it’s an altar: a wood carving of a woman’s face, her arms full of blooms, her hair abundant and represented by squiggly grooves cut into the wood. Fresh flowers from the garden have been arranged around the icon as well as burning fat candles.
This is one of the altars Olivia mentioned.
A fullness, something like frothy milk or new cream, swells from my feet to my head. Such care has been taken with creating and tending this shrine. Unlike the displays of colures nailed, worn, and thrust upon others like knives, I feel devotion rippling through Jamart’s display. After hearing his prayer, I sense sincerity in his belief and in his love for this deity. Delight flutters through me, a moth slipping from one light to the next.
“For you,” Jamart says, back by my side. Head bowed, he hands me a small pouch.
Inside: a jar of golden honey, a block of yellow beeswax, and eight geld.
Rattled, I shake my head and offer back two geld. “This is too much. I can’t possibly—”
“No, I won’t hear of it.” He leads me to the front door. “Thank you, kind lady. You’ve blessed me today. The wax and the blooms—I would never have thought of that.” The irritation from the bee stings on his neck and face has waned some. His skin appears less inflamed, his glow a flickering, lightening amber. Good company and quiet can be healing, I’m sure. My own stings from Maford’s citizens have healed some, too.
I leave Jamart’s home, my cheeks strained from my smile. Maybe, in my old age, I will also make scented candles from my own beehives. A girl can dream, can’t she?
After speaking with Jamart, I can’t bring myself to go to the church. Instead, I find myself standing before the jailhouse. The amber glow of the building has dimmed. There’s one fewer soul than yesterday. I pray that it wasn’t Lively.
The heat of rage and the iciness of helplessness mix in my gut, and I don’t know how I should be feeling right now. I don’t know which emotion has brought these tears now stinging my eyes. My heart burns in my chest as I imagine my last hours alive in a rancid pit that stinks of death and despair. I tremble as I imagine a young woman with Jamart’s nose, Lively, being dragged to this cesspool by the same men who pushed me around yesterday and hinted at the extra violence they’d take against me. All because she dared to believe in something or someone other than Emperor Supreme? This is justice? Reverence? This is who their god is? Violent? Depraved? And they dared callmevile? Are they—Narder and Johny—not the vile ones?
No one else stands near the fetid structure, offering prayers or companionship. Not even Narder stalks around the hut. For now, these prisoners are forgotten.
I tiptoe over to the rancid shack, fighting the urge to vomit, fixing my eyes everywhere else but the limestone-flecked shit clumping around the cracked foundation. I edge as close as possible without fouling my borrowed boots and whisper, “Hello?” to the wall.
“Who’s there?” a man’s coarse voice rasps.
“You don’t know me,” I whisper. “Is Narder nearby?”
“He’s at the tavern,” he whispers. “He drinks there all day and comes back in a worse temper than when he left.”
