Page 72 of Chasing Never
The Seer resides in a small tin house on the outskirts of town, close to the edge of the forest. In fact, the edge of the forest seems to be unaware of its own boundaries, bushes and undergrowth encroaching on the foundation of the shack.
When we knock, there’s an echo against the metal and a shuffle of feet before the door creaks open. The face of a man appears, forehead crowded with dark brown wrinkles. He looks to be in his nineties, if not older.
“What’s your business?” he asks, his voice gruff but not unfriendly.
“We heard a Seer lived here,” says Nolan.
“That would be me,” says the elderly man, widening the door and gesturing us to come in. “Now, what do you two expect from us here?”
“My wife is with child,” explains Nolan.
“Ah,” says the Seer. “And let me guess. You were wondering whether or not you have an heir brewing in there.”
I frown. I forget sometimes that in kingdoms other than Estelle, it is still not the common practice to leave an inheritance to daughters.
“Indeed,” says Nolan, voice gruff. But we agreed before we got here not to mention the true reason for wanting to know if we were having a daughter or a son.
The Seer grunts in disapproval, but he pads and shuffles across his small house all the same, leading me to a bathroom. The house itself is neatly kept, mostly bare. If the Seer makes much coin from his profession, he certainly doesn’t spend it on his home. There’s a stove with a chimney chute on one end of the room, a bed neatly made on the other, and a bookcase on the far wall. Other than that, the house itself is fairly sparse.
When we make it to the back room, there’s even less decoration there. Only a bed in the center of the room with a single sheet draped limply over it, and a countertop topped with an assortment of vials and tools.
“Lay down there, then,” he says, nodding toward the bed.
I glance at Nolan, who squeezes my hand. A silentI won’t let anything happen to you.I slip over to the bed and lie down on it, thankful at least that the Seer has not required me to remove my clothing.
From the counter, the elderly man produces a dagger. Nolan immediately flinches, and the old man looks at him.
“Don’t worry, lad,” he says. “I wouldn’t be in business if I had a habit of killing my patrons, now would I?”
“No, I suppose not,” says Nolan, but the way he’s glancing around the bare room and back into the main room makes me wonder if we’re thinking the same thing. This man’s business does not appear to be thriving, habits of killing patrons notwithstanding.
Nolan stays by my side, positioning himself between me and the Seer, just in case.
The Seer hobbles toward me, blade in one hand, a bowl in the other.
“Which hand do you favor?” he asks.
“The right,” I say.
The Seer nods and gestures with his head toward my left hand. I swallow and clench my fist. The old man appears mildly exasperated.
“Don’t fret. I don’t intend to take any limbs,” he says, though he glances at Nolan’s hook as if he had not considered his present company before those words came out of his mouth.
“You’ll forgive us if we’re slightly suspicious,” says Nolan.
“Yes, I suppose I would be, too,” says the Seer. “What did you do to deserve that one?”
Nolan and I glance at each other, and the Seer chuckles.
“Don’t fret, dear. It’ll just be a little cut,” the Seer says, his voice oddly reassuring. “I trust that whatever inspired you to maim your husband, I have no such inclinations.”
I blush and offer my hand out. He takes it in his weathered, paper-soft hands, positioning it over the bowl, which he balances between his hip and the side of the bed. Pain surges as he digs the edge of the blade into my palm, but he removes the dagger quickly, allowing the slick red blood to seep down into the bowl.
“A little assistance?” he asks Nolan, then hands him the dagger. “You’ll find a wipe on the counter.”
Nolan hesitates, but sidles over to the counter, keeping his eyes cut toward us the entire time. The old man bandages my hand, still keeping the bowl balanced between his hip and the bed, though it does shake a little.
“How long have you been doing this?” I ask.
