Page 67 of Last Rites

I was home alone—the new, unfortunate normal—when a knock came at the door. Kit wouldn’t knock, but I hoped for a friendlier face than the messenger I saw when I peeked out into the growing dark.

I missed the days of Kit insisting on intercepting every guest, guarding me so carefully. Since he discovered my altar and my plans, it seemed he’d resigned himself. His care had gone along with his affection and I was wholly, miserably alone.

Which was how I received the news. The messenger announced the seventh Oath in uncertain terms. We were to burn a town. Sometime. Somewhere. There was a simple letter detailing how we were to set fire to an unsuspecting community, but no map.

“Mister Koesters will know the way,” the messenger assured me, then left.

Those words resounded long after I retreated back into the cottage. Into solitude. Into my own thoughts. They were my most constant companions these days.

Thoughts, and my sketches, though even those were more like ghosts. Memories I found myself reluctant to visit because they would remind me of what I stood to lose. My love, my life…

Sinking onto the couch, I tossed the missive onto the low table, then retrieved my sketchbook and pulled it into my lap. My coloring pencils came along with, tucked in the leather pouch I’d made for them when I was still working in the smithy.

My favorite colors were easy to spot—green, yellow, and blue—worn down to half their original length from heavy use. Every time I sharpened them, I mourned a bit, wondering when I’d have the chance to replace them. Now, that chance seemed a too-distant hope, so I spilled them across my sketchbook and stared at them instead, unwilling to shave even another centimeter off. It was a loss I couldn’t abide.

I was still staring at them, occasionally prodding them across the smooth cream paper, when the front door opened again.

It was earlier than usual, but given the lack of announcement, I knew it was Kit without looking.

And I didn’t look. I kept on rolling my pencils and staring at the blank page while Kit went through his nightly ritual of stripping out of his robe and boots. After a few moments, he wandered over and sat beside me without so much as a greeting exchanged.

I wasn’t sure which of us was more determined to wait out the silence, but it ate me alive.

The house was always quiet these days. Depressing and damn near dead. So, when Kit reached to grab the sheet of parchment off the table and unfold it, I broke.

“They wouldn’t tell me where we were going. They said you’d know the way.”

He looked surprised by the mumble; it was the first thing I’d said to him in days. But no sooner had his brows arched than did they fall flat.

He sighed, then tossed the paper back onto the table. “I do.”

“Where is it?”

Eye contact was uncomfortable—when had that happened? I used to love nothing more than getting lost in his gaze.

“Forstford,” Kit replied.

Quiet descended again, this time like an executioner’s axe.

I gawked at him, waiting for further explanation and getting none.

He braced his elbows on his knees and hunched, settling his gaze on the fireplace. Thanks to the warming weather, I was able to leave it unlit most days. It was another task I’d come to rely on Kit for. Another kindness I was missing.

But something else would soon be burning. A whole town. Kit’s town. His home. His neighbors. The community that had protected him and given him refuge before I plucked him out of it.

We were tasked with destroying it, and I didn’t know what to make of that.

“Kit, we can’t…”

The words dribbled out before Kit snapped back, “We will do what’s required.”

The sharpness cut me to the quick. My hand clenched around my sketchbook before I shoved it aside, sending the coloring pencils rolling and the pages fanning open, laying bare months’ worth of moments and memories.

I shot to my feet, spurred by the heat rising in my chest. “This is where you decide to quit? This is where you’ll let them lead you?” My voice broke, angry, aching. “You’re giving up on all of them like you’ve given up on⁠—”

Me.

I didn’t need to finish the statement; the truth was written all over my face, leaking out of me like blood. If I was to die, if these were my last days alive, then I wanted to spend them happy.