Page 44 of Last Rites

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” she asked, voice quiet enough not to carry beyond the two of us.

I nearly choked on a bite, swallowing past the sudden tightness in my throat.

“What do you mean?” I forced out.

She glanced over at me, brown eyes soft, and a sympathetic half-smile on her lips. She tugged on an old, tarnished chain looped around her left wrist, something she did often whenever we talked about serious things. “During your Oath.”

I wondered then if she disbelieved our story. She’d undertaken the Oaths decades ago, so she knew what the trials entailed. Though, if she’d supported my father and his vision for the Bone Men, I wasn’t sure she found them as abhorrent as I did.

Could she see my guilt, heavier than a millstone, weighing me down? Did she suppose it was the act of poisoning the well that haunted me, or did she suspect Anders’s fate was my doing? Whatever she thought, her expression remained the same: sad, and worried, and compassionate.

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I kept quiet.

“You haven’t been yourself since you got back,” she said when it became clear I didn’t intend to respond. “Sometimes it helps to say it out loud to get it out of your head for a bit. I’m happy to listen.”

The only problem was, in my head was the only place I could handle this. It was hard enough discussing it with Penny. I still couldn’t bring myself to put words to what I’d done. I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to. It was like, as long as I didn’t say it out loud, as long as no one did, I could pretend it was a bad dream.

Not that I imagined that would last forever. I would have to face it someday.

“It didn’t go as planned, but I’ll be fine.”

Her mouth twisted in a frown. “You’re not fine now, Kit.” She set aside her sandwich and turned to face me, pulling my free hand into her lap between both of her own. “The Oaths are cruel. We’d have to be stupid not to see that.”

I glanced around, worried that the cliff might reflect our hushed words back out to the rest of the workers gathered too close for my comfort. They continued on with their own conversations, oblivious to the blasphemous sentiment Philippa had just uttered.

I didn’t know what to make of it. I was so sure she believed in my father’s vision, but now I had my doubts. Thinking back on our conversations over the last two weeks, I found myself seeing little things she’d said with new eyes. Offhand comments about how much better things had been under Levitt’s authority, or how kindness and softness were virtues oft discounted amongst the Bone Men’s ranks, or that suffering need not be a precursor to community. Gentle hints that she wasn’t who I thought she was, despite how she performed when Merrick or Klaus were around.

My eyes slid back to hers, and I immediately wanted to look away again. She held my gaze with such intensity that I couldn’t.

“You needn’t sit with this alone,” she said gently. “I know how hard it can be to talk about these things with the people we love. We want them to see us as better than we see ourselves, but that can mean we marinate in the hurt alone when what we really need is to air out the wounds so they can heal.” She squeezed my hand tight. “You’re not alone, Kit. If you can’t talk to Penny, talk to me.”

If only it were that easy. Even if I wanted to unload every awful detail of what happened in that clearing, the words caught in my chest and choked off my throat before a single one could emerge.

Finally, I managed to say, “I appreciate your concern, but this isn’t something you can help with.”

She heaved a sad sigh. One hand left mine to dig in her lunch pail, and then she was pressing a small glass dropper bottle into my palm and holding it there as she squeezed my hand again.

“I can at least help with part of it. You clearly haven’t been sleeping well. I know you have a contentious relationship with our herbalist, so I took the liberty of stopping by yesterday afternoon to ask for this for myself.” She gave a soft smile. “A few drops in some tea before bed, and it will help you get some deep sleep.”

When she let go of my hand, I stared down at the bottle of pale, yellow liquid she left behind. It wasn’t the sickly green of hemlock, but the bottle was the same. It made my stomach ache to think of taking it.

“Milk thistle,” Philippa supplied as an answer to the question I had yet to ask.

It might help me sleep, but that was only half of my problem. What I needed was some potion or herb that would strip away my dreams. Because the thought of being trapped in the endless nightmares that dogged my sleep was terrifying. Usually, they replayed what I did to Anders, over and over and over until I clawed my way back to wakefulness. But sometimes, it was Penny under my knife, or Rosie, or Isla, and I’d rather not sleep at all than not be able to wake myself when it got too bad.

“Thank you,” I croaked, tucking the bottle into my lunch pail and resolving never to take a drop.

“You’re welcome, Kit.” She turned back to her lunch. “And the offer to talk is always open to you.”

All I could do was nod in response.

“Now,” she said, plastering on a smile. “When are you going to bring your lovely man over to have dinner with me? I would love the chance to get to know him, too. Maybe get him to tell me some stories about you for a change.”

I managed a wan smile of my own, glad for the respite from heavier topics. “I’ll talk to Penny, see if we can figure out an evening that works for all of us.”

She reached over and patted my arm. “Good boy.”

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