Page 50 of A Thief to Die For

I find my eyes are watering, and slowly my question dissipates like smoke. Because I was wrong. It’s not how can they gather and sing at a time like this?

The question is: how could they not?

Iwipe my sweaty brow, then resume sawing the plank of wood I’m holding down on the picnic table.

‘Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?’ Little John asks from the bench beside me, where he’s lying in the shadow of the table.

‘Because it’s hot out.’ And this stuff is dirty. I wipe my blackened fingers on my trousers, achieving nothing. Some of these salvaged boards got more than a little kiss from the flames.

‘Yeah, but I’m not allowed to take my shirt off. Why do you get to?’

‘Because my mum isn’t here.’

‘I think you should talk to my mama and ask if I can take mine off.’

I push the saw back and forth the final few strokes, and the jagged, burned end of the board falls to the ground. ‘And what would I say to convince her?’

‘Tell her it’s hot out and we’re working men.’

I quirk an eyebrow.

‘What? I’m helping,’ he says.

I smirk as a blonde girl his age sets a cup filled with wildflowers on the table. Since it’s Sunday, everyone’s off from the mine and doing chores, like washing clothes by hand and cooking. Or, like me, cleaning up the damage from last night.

‘What are they doing?’ I ask Little John, gesturing at the lanterns being hung on sticks all around.

He sits up and shields his eyes from the sun. ‘Decorating. They always do that for the New Moon celebration.’

I grab another mangled piece of blackened wood. ‘They’re still going ahead with that after last night?

Not for the first time, I see Rufus watching me from where he’s sitting at another table. I noticed him doing that last night too, after the fire.

Little John shrugs. ‘Why not? Dancing is fu–’

‘I see you’re working hard.’

I turn and find Agatha smiling. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

She pats her long skirt, looking out of her element here. Her gaze skims my chest. Maybe Little John’s mum was right. Damn, where is my shirt?

‘His skin is the colour of a plucked chicken, ain’t it?’ Little John says. ‘Well, maybe one that’s roasted a little bit. Or is that not what you’re starin’ at?’

Agatha’s face reddens.

I clear my throat. ‘Out for a stroll?’ I ask Agatha.

She exhales. ‘Yes. I didn’t hear about the fire until it was over. So sad.’ Her fingers twine together.

‘Well, there’s lots of it to see.’ I adjust my plank and return to sawing.

‘I actually … I was wondering if you wanted to join me at the pond? I was going to dip my feet in the water, since it’s so hot today.’

Cold water sounds like a dream right about now. But alone time with Agatha? Wouldn’t want to give her the wrong idea. I make a show of surveying the mountain of boards that need to be cut and reinstalled. ‘Doesn’t look like I’ll be free for a while.’

‘Maybe I could help?’

‘You know how to work a saw?’