Page 137 of Swords of Soul and Shadow
Petra’s cheeks pinked a shade darker. “Well, those who didn’t have much before the attack have even less down here—whether that’s supplies or influence. I’ve heard talk among some that the wealthier inhabitants are demanding that the ‘load’ down here be ‘lightened.’ Not sure where the information is coming from, but it doesn’t seem too far-fetched. We’re running out of supplies, but to go to the surface with the daily flyovers…” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I’m supposed to be making sure you’re okay and here I am just blabbering away.”
Petra retrieved her parchment and pencil from where it had fallen to the floor. She wrote something down. “Now, youdon’t seem to be bleeding or missing any body parts, so how can I help you today?”
That was one way to change the subject.
Hallie gave her a tentative smile. The information made sense, but it still bothered her. Most of the wealthier families of Jayde had country estates they could escape to. Those who called the lower city home did not. She didn’t really have a solution either other than to figure out a way to negotiate with the Cerls.
That brought her back to her power and the scary sword she’d brought with her to Kyvena, the one that Correa wanted. “I’m fine. Get back to your work, and we’ll chat later?”
Petra stuffed her parchment away, as well as the soiled bandage. “Sure. Be careful of Shackley, would you? He’s not good news.”
Hallie wouldn’t, and she wished she could tell her friend everything. But as Petra went back down the line checking on others, her tears only a memory, Hallie felt the gap between them grow. It’d been there since she’d returned from Myrrai, when she’d been forced to lie to her friends about everything that had happened to her.
And now it seemed she might never be able to repair it. She ran her hands down her face and went to find her mother. She needed to rest and process, and she couldn’t very well do that in the hospital ward, the sights and smells reminding her of the fate she hadn’t suffered…but Ellis had.
Chapter 27
AS WERE THEY ALL
31 Years Ago
THE ONLY SOUNDS WERE THE crackling of the pyre and the soft tears of mourners.
The air still smelled damp from the rain earlier, yet the fire still burned behind Harlan’s back. The mourning suit he wore was scratchy and ill fitting, but he’d not had time to get a new one tailored before the Burning. Neither the well-kept pyre plot nor those assembled noticed. Only Harlan. He tugged his bowler down his forehead, adjusting and hoped it shaded his eyes. The sunset was radiant above them, but Harlan refused to admire it.
It might’ve been a gift from the gods, but it was a cruel one at that. The Burnings of the Lady Rose Fairchild and her newborn daughter were nothing but tragedies.
To his left stood Carleton, his head bowed. Aurelia was tucked beside him in a demure black gown and veiled velvet-lined hat. The latter held a handkerchief to her mouth. Hisadoptive parents hadn’t known Rose long, but after a note from Harlan upon Ezekiel’s reassignment to the city, they’d taken the Fairchilds under their wing.
To Harlan’s right, Les held herself together with pressed lips, her face pale, her curls pinned tightly, and her eyes wet. Admirable considering the circumstances. In the three months since their correspondence had begun, Harlan felt like he understood her, which was odd considering he’d discovered that by her letters. He’d received them weekly since that first one, and he’d looked forward to each.
While from very different origins, he’d found they both dreamed of acceptance. Harlan’s looked a little different, but not since that tiny Ravenhelm schoolyard where he played groggon with his friends had he felt that someone truly saw him. Ezekiel had chipped the stone wall Harlan had surrounded himself with over the years, but Les had forced her way in with only inked words.
How different his outlook on life had changed since he’d met her. He’d not thought it possible to feel for someone in a way that a man cares about a woman. He never thought it would be for someone as ruined as he was. A boy from the mines never could’ve hoped for much more than a woman to cook his meals, keep his bed warm, and say his final rites when his time came too early.
That wasn’t love. It was obligation and survival.
It was a way of life, and the only one Harlan had truly known. Carleton and Aurelia seemed to love each other in a deeper way, but that had very rarely been on display for Harlan. With Carleton’s work, he wasn’t at home often—even when he’d been promoted high enough to be stationed in the capital.
Ezekiel had been the first one he’d known to love his wife in a way that felt like more than just a rudimentary contract. He’d written religiously to her in the time Harlan had knownhim. He’d spoken about her constantly. He kept family portraits in his pocket.
And now, that was gone. Any revelation Harlan had over the last few months had been overshadowed by the last few weeks and the fire behind them.
Les’ hand curled into a tight fist. The other was on her nephew Randall’s shoulder. The boy stood stick straight, staring straight ahead, his face too calm for a boy who’d lost his mother and baby sister. The other boy, Sullivan, fidgeted with his tiny suit, his hand tucked tight within Rose’s mother’s grip. Her eyes were red, even evident from under her veil. Her husband, Rose’s father, stood to her other side, his hands clasped in front of him, a tear sliding down his cheek.
Harlan’s heart gave a painful twinge. The twins were so young. Younger than Harlan when he’d lost his entire family. Would losing your mother at such a tender age have as profound an impact on him as it had Harlan? Would they even remember the details? Or just the overwhelming darkness that hid deep inside one’s soul?
Eyes shadowed and red, Ezekiel stood between them all. His mourning suit was neat and tidy, new and as dark as midnight. According to Les, he’d rarely slept since Rose and the baby passed, the tiny bundle her mother had named Emilia before she’d died, too.
Rose’s parents moved into the Fairchild townhome to help with the boys. They and Les were the only reasons Ezekiel looked somewhat presentable.
His friend hadn’t turned with the rest of the mourners. Some might say it disrespectful to the deceased, to watch them as their souls returned to the stars, but Harlan knew better. It was taking every bit of strength he had left to stay still instead of burning with his wife and child.
Sullivan, the little boy who’d been full of fire the day Harlan had met him, wailed. His grandfather picked him up, holding him to his chest. The boy didn’t quiet. His twin at Les’ side stayed silent. Ezekiel only flinched.
More tears spilled down.
Upon Harlan’s return to the capital, he’d called upon Ezekiel to find him in the townhome study, an unopened bottle of gin upon the desk, his eyes unblinking. He hadn’t changed out of his uniform since the day Rose went into labor—evidenced by its dishevelment and stains on the breast and once-shiny medals.
