Page 31 of Last Rites

I tapped my pencil on the open sketchbook page. “I think I will give you a name,” I said to the ewe, who merely blinked her wide, dumb eyes. “And I'll draw you in a much happier place than this. Somewhere you'll have all the sweetgrass and clover you can eat.”

Anders chortled to himself, but I ignored it. It was never too early to practice tuning him out.

“What about Delilah?” I asked.

“I think that’s a fine name,” Kit chimed from the driver’s bench.

I glanced aside to find him watching over his shoulder. His smile was soft and eyes as kind as ever. My stomach fluttered.

We rode on. Not in silence—Anders would not allow that—but I was able to ignore him as I drew Delilah in a quiet clearing, surrounded by soft grass and spring blooms. It did make it a bit worse, having named her, having considered a kinder future than the one that awaited her at the end of this journey.

It wasn’t long before I was sick over it, staring at my sketchbook and then at the ignorant creature trapped and awaiting her demise.

“We’ll have to kill her first,” I announced.

This time, my intrusion merited a groan from Anders, who didn’t appreciate being interrupted.

“What are you on about now?” he grumbled.

“Delilah.” I indicated the ewe with the blunt end of my pencil. “Before we pitch her down the well, we’ll need to kill her.”

“Why?” Anders drawled.

I thought again of the black abyss of the well, like a mouth waiting to swallow the sheep down into its watery belly. “I wouldn’t want to die by falling,” I explained. “Or drowning. We’ll have to put her out of her misery so she won’t suffer.” The thought made me shudder.

“I thought you were a farmer,” Anders snarked.

“A farmer, not a butcher,” I retorted, then shuddered. “Barbaric. What does this prove, anyway? Poisoning water. Making people sick. Murdering livestock.”

Isla looked on with wide, blue eyes while Rosie tipped her head. Braids spilled over her shoulder like a curtain of rope.

“Are you more upset about the sick people or the dead sheep?” Rosie asked.

From the driver’s bench, Kit heaved a sigh. “Adversity strengthens community. It makes people come together toward a common cause.”

“Or a common infirmary,” I grumbled and hunched over my sketchbook.

Anders made another rough sound in his throat. “Careful, initiate, you wouldn’t want to appear lacking in faith.”

A scowl carved deep lines in my face, so much I imagined the shadow of them lingered when we stopped for the first night. We made camp, traded off watch, and set out again at first light after not nearly enough sleep.

The next day’s travel was packed full of Anders’s boisterous stories and inappropriate jokes, but otherwise uneventful. We arrived at the unlucky town of Millfield as the sun was almost fully below the horizon.

Millfield looked unassuming enough, a collection of humble stone cottages roofed with thatch gone silver-gray in the twilight. A few plumes of smoke curled from crooked chimneys, but the streets were still and sparse. A single horse stood tethered outside the tavern, and I counted only three residents crossing the square. It was quiet, but not the good kind. Quiet like the hush before a scream.

We couldn’t very well throw a sheep down the public well in broad daylight, which meant we needed to wait for dark. Stopping in the middle of the road wasn’t an option, either, so we veered off into the tree line—just far enough that the campfire smoke wouldn’t be seen, but close enough to watch the town and wait for the light to fade.

Anders took the lead, hacking thin branches to bits with sweeping swings of his machete to clear a path. Rosie followed behind him, her dark eyes scanning the woods with a quiet competence that made me trust her more than anyone else in our little troop.

Isla trailed a few steps behind, pale as a moonbeam.

And then there was Kit, walking beside me. His dark curls were a mess from the journey, and his tunic was rumpled, but his hand found mine and gave it a squeeze that settled my stomach. His warm brown eyes caught mine with a flicker of amusement. “Charming place,” he murmured.

We cleared a space between a ring of trees and got to work. Anders dug a fire pit with the toe of his boot, Rosie unpacked the bedrolls, and Isla wandered off without a word, probably to circle the perimeter. Kit and I dug out the pastries and jerky we’d packed for dinner while Anders cursed under his breath about our live sacrifice.

Since we’d stopped, Delilah had begun squirming and bleating, likely eager to stretch her stiff legs after days in the crate. Besides grating on our already frayed nerves, the racket was likely to attract attention to the camp we were building, so Anders was looking for a way to shut her up.

“She might be hungry,” I suggested.