Page 5 of Cinder
As he stepped out onto the street once more, he tracked the dozens of pigeons lining the sills, the rooftops, the street corners—despite those around him seeming to miss the way the birds would flock to him, part of Cin would always regret that first press of their feathers into a wound. He could have been a quiet killer, not watched the price on his head go up, not kept his own legend alive. But there was part of him, he knew, the tiniest, most reckless part, that thrilled to hear his title on someone’s lips. Just not that day; not with Dorthe out there, knowing or not knowing.
Cin had a final shop to stop at, but instead his feet carried him the long way around town, quiet and unobtrusive. He passed more of the crown’s watch, but none of them so much as lookedhis way. No one noticed when he slowed near the Earharts’ home.
It had been dangerous to care this fiercely in a place so close to home—in the town he moved through nearly every day—but he had not been able to ignore Dorthe, not then any more than now.
The soles of his feet ached, to run for the truth or away from it; either would be better than this. In the end, the street cleared for a moment on both sides, and Cin couldn’t help himself from swinging, grocery pack and all, onto the first story overhang of the Earharts’ home. It was partially connected to the house to the right of it, their little barns sharing enough of a wall that Cin had an easy route over the top. He focused on slow and steady breathing through the binding around his chest and followed the invisible steps he’d taken so many nights before, more careful than ever with the tear in his boot, along the lips of the second story windows and down to the small veranda beside the Earharts’ little kitchen.
As Cin pressed his head over the side of the roofing, he picked up a faint noise. Not a sob, not a racket—two sounds he’d heard often here—but the softest of humming. Happy. Peaceful.
Joy welled inside him, and for a moment, just one single moment, he let it overcome his shame and fear. Dorthe had never sung before. How could she, when she had to know the moment her husband’s shoes passed over the threshold? Even a house empty of him was not trulyfreeof him.
Until now.
And for just that moment, the act of creating a living being’s last breath felt almost pious.
But then Dorthe’s humming faded as she moved to the other side of the house, and Cin was alone on a roof that didn’t belong to him, fretting again over whether or not the widow of his victim knew him; whether she’d turn him in. The way she’d beensinging, though, Cin hoped that maybe he didn’t have to worry so much after all.
Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself over the edge, sliding in through the unlocked kitchen door. The torn side of his boot’s sole flapped sadly against the stone floor. He listened for the distant shuffling of Dorthe’s work, the same way she must have stood there and listened to her husband’s for months or years, and as Cin did so, he portioned out a little of the sugar he’d just bought, leaving it in a bundle with a flower atop.
She could make herself something sweet tonight. Enjoy her newfound freedom.
Cin crept out the way he’d come, but as he climbed back up from the kitchen to the roof, the torn edge of his boot snagged on the same purchase he’d placed his weight a moment before. He slipped. His hands found the edge of the veranda, and he caught himself mid-fall, swinging there as his feet scrambled for purchase. Cin heaved his body back over the top of the veranda, his lungs burning with each chaotic breath. He lay there, gasping, for what seemed like far, far too long, a shudder more emotional than physical working its way through him.
Cin finished the route with extra care, pausing to check the street before jumping down. A watch member glanced over his shoulder at the sound of Cin’s landing, but his gaze skipped right past. From the rooftop across the way, one of his pigeons cooed. Still, it felt like someone was judging him—God, or his mother, or the strangling grip of the future he was meant to have: one where he was the sort of person bright and lovely and pious enough to deserve a partner who’d carry him away from his life, instead of a family who clearly needed every ounce of usefulness he had inside him.
Three
The war-drums of Cin’s heartbeat seemed to follow him all the way to the cobbler’s. He waited awkwardly while his brother’s new shoes were retrieved and packaged by the old woman who’d owned the place since before Cin was born. She grunted as she handed him the final bundle, scowling down over the side of the counter.
“Your shoes look like they could use attention,” she said, clearly eying the popped seam in the side of the right boot’s toe.
Cin tried not to grimace. If his slip at the Earharts’ was any sign, the cobbler was more right than she knew. But Louise wouldn’t pay to replace Cin’s boots any more often then the rest of the household, even if he left the house more… including in the middle of the night, over walls, and atop roofs. Cin had once made the mistake of letting Floy borrow his boots to go collect their science specimens, back when they were young enough that Cin still believed the two of them might be friends—the bright, curious sibling Manfred had never been for Cin—and he was fairly sure the mud he still found caked on his soles was from them. Maybe that was what had prompted the popped seam in the first place; Floy’s feetwerea size too large for comfort now. They’d have to curl their toes up against the tips if the bulk of their heel were to fit.
“I have a spare afternoon,” the cobbler added. “I could get it fixed for… say a quarter of what your brother’s new pair cost.”
Cin laughed awkwardly, avoiding the cobbler’s eyes. “If I got these repaired every time they broke, you’d never be rid of me,” he joked. “It would be a feat of magic just to keep them together for long.”
The cobbler huffed. “If I hadthattalent, I wouldn’t be here, now would I?”
“No, ma’am, I assume not.” Cin turned to go, and he felt a fresh bit of his boot tear. Before he could step out the door proper, the cobbler raised her voice.
“Heard through the guild that there’s a pair of free elves setting up shop in the border forest,” she called. “You could try them. They probably work on favors or some nonsense, knowing that lot.”
“Thanks,” Cin replied, unsure that hewasthankful. The way she had said it sounded as though she was lumping these elves’ magic in with the likes of the mythical shape-shifting Herr Candy or the illusive, bartering Frog Prince, but from what Cin knew of elves, they were a group of people more like humans than any monster of the woods. If there were magical creatures worth risking a favor to, it was likely them.
Cin had seen elves before, a time or two—occasionally they traveled through Hallin for business, though just as often these days they were moved illegally through the country in magic-dampening chains—but each time he met one felt like the first. They should not have been such a wonder, he knew. They had a country of their own to the north—a land of long wintersand vibrant magic, so Cin had heard—and at one time they'd been allies and trade partners with the kingdoms of Hallin and beyond.
Now though, the danger of the Falchovari slave trade meant that most were better off keeping to themselves than risk traveling through the human kingdoms, where they might end up in a Falchovari factory if they strayed too close to the border. With their lives so restricted, these cobblers in the woods were likely more open to any kind of bartering. But there were other magical things besides elves in that forest. Cin would not be the first person to wander too far off the safety of the main road and never return. Not even the late Prince Adalwin and his assembly of guards had managed that, despite the lies that had spread of the incident later—what chance did Cin have, alone?
Louise would allow him the money to buy a new pair of boots by next summer. That would be enough. It always had been.
Arms now laden with goods, Cin made his way back through the town in the direction of home. His route took him past the main square, and he gave one hasty glance at the announcement board situated at one end. He knew what would still be hanging there—hanging in every town in Hallin within a day’s ride of the nearby capital. The wanted signs were replaced each month that Cin washed the blood from his blade: reward for information accurately identifying the murderer known as the Plumed Menace of Hallin. The exact price tag rose with every few killings, as did the ferocity of country’s opinions on the matter.
The Plumed Menace was a vigilante, some said, ridding the country of the scum that slid through the cracks of justice.
Or they were a serial killer, others claimed, obsessed with the joy of the hunt.
And then there were those who stated it didn’t matter; that no random citizen should have the right to decide who got to live or die.
