“Why!”
A wooden plate slammed into the wall a few feet from Necrem’s head. Flakes of crumbs leftover from his wife’s dinner scattered in every direction. A few sprinkled on his face. He remained perfectly still on his stool with his hands on his knees, sitting but a foot inside his wife’s bedroom.
She hasn’t had it this bad in years, he lamented.
Eulalia sat curled up in her bed, rocking with her arms wrapped around her legs. Her wrinkled, oversized nightshift covered her from neck to feet. Her honey-brown hair splayed down her back, easily reaching her waist, and the tips curled up on the lumpy mattress. There were more grays since he had seen her last, and she was missing more hairs around the split of the natural, central part of her hair above her forehead. Most of her face was shielded behind her knees, but her wild, hollowed eyes shifted nervously, intentionally avoiding him.
“Why were you gone?” she mumbled.
“I was . . .” He failed to find the words to gently explain. The days in solitude hadn’t been enough for him to come up with a way of saying it without the sting. “I was trying to pay the tax. I failed.”
Eulalia groaned and buried her head deeper into her knees.
“What’s the tax?” Bayona asked.
His little miracle sat between him and her mother, kneeling on the wood floor while laying an arm on the side of the bed. There were bags under the girl’s eyes, smudges on her face, and her hair needed combing. She looked how he felt—exhausted.
Poor thing must have gone nights without sleep taking care of Eulalia. He held in a proud smile, but his freshly salved scars were still pulled taut. Our brave, little girl.
He sniffed sharply through his nose, air whistling through his clean mask’s air holes, and cleared his throat. “A tax is money we have pay to the marqués because . . . because . . .” Again, he searched for a way to explain something, and again, words failed him.
His brow furled, puzzled. How do you explain taxes to a ten-year-old?
He shook his head, giving up in less than a second. “Because the marqués says so.”
“Why?” Bayona asked, blinking blankly at him with her head tilted. “Did he order something?”
“No.” He chuckled, and then it hit him. “Well, yes. He ordered us to pay, and we must pay.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s the marqués, and he says so.” Necrem’s shoulders went tight, fearing he was about to descend into a never-ending loop.
“Why?”
He started to say something but stopped and shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve been wondering that for—”
“We must sell everything we can!” Eulalia screamed, throwing her head back.
Bayona squeaked and leapt back from the bed.
A jolt ran up Necrem’s spine and nearly sent him tumbling off his stool.
Eulalia wheezed through her exposed teeth. Her cheeks, once flush and sun-kissed, were now as hollow as her eyes, sunken in to outline her cheekbones. Her pale lips were brittle and chapped from burying her face in the linen cloth of her sheets and nightshift. A twisted bent in the bridge of her nose and a thin scar curving around her neck ruined her once delicate features. Her own scars from ten years ago.
“Sell . . .” She pointed at the old dresser against the wall facing the foot of the bed. Her finger trembled when she saw the tall, oval-shaped mirror was gone.
She’s forgotten again. Necrem swallowed, knowing what was coming. They had sold the valuable glass years ago.
“Sell—” Eulalia made a choking sound when she didn’t see her grandmother’s silver tea set on the small, round table by the window overlooking the street, barely marred by the Easterly Sun’s evening rays.
Sold that three years ago for Borbin’s last great campaign. He remembered her screaming then, too, but only out of refusal to part with it. The next thing she’ll look for will be . . .
Eulalia scrambled to the far side of the bed, toward a small drawer doubling as lampstand. She flung open the three drawers, tossing each away then skidding across the floor when she didn’t find what she was looking for.
You won’t find it, dear, he wanted to tell her.
His chest was taut. His heart wept seeing her like this again. But there was nothing he could say to remind her this had all happened before, and now they truly had nothing left.
He glanced to his side and found Bayona standing in the corner of the room. Her little hands covered her mouth while she watched her mother intently. Her legs shook. This was the first time Eulalia had had a spell like this that she could remember.
A hard thump snapped Necrem’s attention back to his upset wife. After rummaging through the last drawer, she’d just dropped it. Her arm hung limp over the bed, and her long hair draped over her face.
“Gone,” she wept. “All gone.”
“We sold the locket to buy the house, Eulalia,” he reminded her. “Nine years ago.”
The locket had belonged to her mother, and it was solid gold. That, with all the deberes Necrem had, had been enough to make sure they never had a landlord. His family owning their house and forge meant more to Necrem at the time than anything else, the only security he could give them.
Eulalia wheezed and sniffled. Her head bobbed, and her shoulders were quivering. “What are we going to do? What do we have left—” She threw her head back, gasping and flinging her hair everywhere. She wheeled about, rolling and twisting the bedsheet around her, her face a mask of terror. “They’re not going to take my house!” she screamed.
Necrem wasn’t bothered by the screams. They echoed through his mind and memory daily. And, after ten years, he had forgotten what life was without them. He could only look at his wife with pity and wait for her to catch her breath. A little bit of calm before the next hammer fell.
“They’re not going to take our house,” he said as calmly as he could. “I’ve . . . agreed to another way.”
Eulalia’s heavy breathing slowed. Her eyes narrowed at him, as if remembering he was there, and then she slowly, defensively recoiled.
“What way?” she asked, her voice thick with suspicion. “Going to give them more pots and pans?”
Necrem didn’t feel the sting from her words. He knew this wasn’t her. This wasn’t her fault. It was the trauma’s fault. It was his fault.
“Me,” he replied solemnly. “The marqués wants men more than money this year. So, I gave them me. I have to go back tonight and enlist in the army tomorrow.”
With each word he spoke, Eulalia’s face grew whiter and whiter. Her arms creeped up her body, crisscrossed until her hands cupped her shoulders. She pulled back against the bed’s headboard, drew her legs up in front of her, and then shielded her face with her hair. By the end, Necrem could only hear her deep breathing, growing faster and faster, and see her shoulders rising and falling.
“You’re leaving, Papa?” Bayona asked.
His little miracle’s fear appeared gone, yet she remained in the corner with her arms wrapped around her. She stared at him, pleadingly. Her eyes welled up, on the verge of tears. It was evident by her wrinkled brow and pouting lips that she didn’t understand.
Necrem’s scars twinged from seeing her like that. Not only was his wife distraught, but seeing his daughter like that, as well . . . both looked so similar. The thought of his daughter suffering something to make her like his wife twisted his guts, and a shiver ran down his spine.
Be strong, he told himself, swallowing and sitting straighter. I must be strong, tempered to the finest degree.
“Only for a little while,” he lied. There was no telling how long a campaign would last, or if he would come back from it. “But I’ll be back. Your papa will always come back, Bayona.”
He tried his best to sound confident and comforting. Even with the mask, he tried to smile.
Bayona’s pouting lips and chin trembled. Tears leaked from the corner of her eyes and ran down her cheeks. She sniffed from the runny snot oozing from her nose.
“Aw, it’s fine, Little Miracle,” Necrem said. He stood from his stool and stepped toward her. “It’s—”
“Ah!” Eulalia’s ear-piecing shriek ripped through the room.
Bayona cried out in terror at her mother’s sudden outburst. Necrem reeled, slamming his back to wall, eyes wide with shock, realizing his mistake all too late. He had stepped into her room.
This is one of Eulalia’s bad days!
“No!” Eulalia screamed. “I’m not going! No! Get out!”
She kicked her feet furiously in the air, sending the bedsheet sailing into the air and off the bed. While she kicked, she buried her face in her hands. Her fingernails visibly dug into her scalp.
“What’s wrong with her?” Bayona cried. The terrified girl huddled in the corner, crying harder than before. “What’s wrong with Mama?”
Necrem winced, desperate to think of some way to calm this situation down. “She’s just—”
“I won’t go back!” Eulalia cried, slamming the back of her head against the headboard, rattling the wall with hard knocks against the wood. Her fingernails clawed down her face. “Never! Never! Never!”
She continued to slam her head against the headboard, and Bayona screamed.
She’s going to crack her skull!
Necrem sprung onto the bed, not caring that coming into Eulalia’s room could make her grow worse. He didn’t know how much worse she could get after going so far.
She screeched incoherently when she saw him coming and flailed her legs, kicking and scrambling, trying to get off the bed, but she got caught up in her long nightgown.
Necrem threw his arms around her, pinning her arms under his to stop her from clawing herself, and then he held her tight, which only made her thrash harder.
“Let me go!” Eulalia grabbed his forearms, fingernails biting into his flesh. She wiggled and squirmed, trying to make him let go or slip out from under his arms, but he held. She growled, gargling as if she was drooling, and flailed her head, shaking her hair everywhere. The musky scent of oil and sweat filled his nostrils from her being in bed all day and not bathing.
Fearing he might lose his grip, Necrem fell on his side, dragging her down with him, and held her against the bed.
“No!” Panic filled Eulalia’s voice, and she frantically but uselessly kicked his legs. “Not again! Not again!”
She threw her head back, catching Necrem by surprise and slamming into his face. His vision flashed, and he didn’t see her throwing her head back again. His nose crunched from the impact. Seconds later, he tasted iron from warm blood oozing from it.
He held. He gripped his forearms, refusing to let go, even when his muscles pulsed and grew numb.
“I’m not going to hurt you!” he bellowed. His scars stung and burned from his mouth stretching wide. “I’d never hurt you, Eulalia!”
Eulalia cried and shook her head. “No, no, no.”
“I’d never hurt you, Eulalia. I’d never hurt you.”
It became a chant, him repeatedly swearing never to hurt her, and her repeatedly refusing to hear him. Bayona sobbed in the background, unable to understand what was going on, horrified by all the screams.
Necrem lost track of time. Calming Eulalia down was all that mattered. He repeatedly promised her that she wouldn’t be hurt, she continuously refused to believe it, and Bayona softly whimpered. By the time he realized Eulalia had stopped struggling, the Easterly Sun was no longer shining through the window, and she was reduced to sobbing into the mattress.
He cautiously relaxed his grip. She pulled away once he let go, curling into the fetal position.
“It’ll be all right, Eulalia,” he said softly. “I’ll make sure you and Bayona are taken care of. Nothing’s going to happen to you.” He gently touched the back of her head, checking she wasn’t injured after hitting her head against the headboard and trying to be comforting. She gasped and recoiled, pulling more into herself, and he jerked his hand away.
“Please go,” she begged. “Please . . . please go.”
Necrem knew there was nothing more he could do. He crawled away and sat hunched on the side of the bed. He stared down at his shaking hands, at every crease, crack, callus, and line crisscrossing his big palms and thick fingers.
What am I supposed to do? He wanted to cry. He wanted to yell, demand to the Savior that question that had haunted him for the past ten years but kept inside instead. What am I supposed to do?
He didn’t know how to help his wife. He had seen what had happened to her, but her pain was immeasurable to him. He had thought she would heal with time and had done the best he could to give her some comfort in this world with the meager things he could provide. He had never been able to comfort her himself, though.
What am I supposed to do? How can a man comfort his wife when she can’t bare the touch of him?
He balled his shaky hands into fists. From there, his whole body shook, vibrating the bed. Gritting his teeth, he let out a long, frustrated sigh. There was nothing for it, nothing he could do now. He was out of time and knew he needed to see to things he could do before having to leave.
He raised his head, meeting Bayona’s eyes. His little girl’s face was red, her eyelids raw from crying and rubbing them. She sat slumped on the floor and, like her mother, her arms wrapped around her legs.
“It’s all right, Bayona,” he said. “Mama . . . Mama’s just having . . . a very bad day.”
“Is . . .?” Bayona sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Is she all right?”
No, he wanted to say. She’ll never be well.
“She just needs rest,” he lied. “Then she’ll have good day tomorrow.”
“You sure?” Bayona sat up, still at the wonderous age of clutching every grain of hope that was promised without question.
Necrem nodded. “I’m sure.”
She sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve again. “But what about you?”
He chuckled and wished he could smile for her. “You let Papa worry about Papa. Let me pack some things”—he pushed off his knees and groaned, rising off the bed—“and then we’ll go see if . . . an old friend can be forgiving.”
~~~
“Where are we going?” Bayona asked. Her small hand squeezed his pinky and ring fingers.
“I can’t just leave you and your mama alone for who-knows-how-long,” Necrem explained for the hundredth time. “We’re going to see an old friend of Papa’s and see if he can forgive me and look in on both of you.”
The slums were quiet tonight, save for a baying dog a couple streets over and a couple arguing with their window open two houses back. No one was out on streets, not even to sit out on the front steps to enjoy the cool night air. Anyone caught out at night this time of year risked being suspected as a thief, or worse. Such suspicion was all the press gangs needed to conscript a poor soul into the marqués’s army.
Unfortunately for Necrem, his fate was already sealed.
“Why does he need to forgive you, Papa?” Bayona asked.
He winced. This was the one time he wished she wouldn’t be curious. “You know how sometimes you argue with the other kids and get angry?”
“Yeah.”
“And sometimes you might get angry enough you feel like you want to push them or something?” In ten years, Necrem had found this the hardest part of parenting—trying to explain something he believed simple simpler.
“Yeah.”
He swallowed, wetting his throat and renewing his courage. It took courage to admit to your child that you had made a mistake. They never forgot it. “Well, Papa and Sanjaro, my friend, got into an argument, and Papa . . . pushed him.”
“Papa!” Bayona squeaked, squeezing his fingers. “Was he hurt?”
“I think so.”
“Was he real mad at you?”
He shook his head. “I . . . don’t know. I had to leave before I could say I was sorry.”
They walked down the street in silence for another block with only the crunching gravel and sounds of bugs in the distance to keep the quiet from being maddening. He looked down at her, but only saw the top of her head in the dim light.
With everything she’s seen tonight, what could she be thinking now? he wondered. Her papa suddenly has a temper and must leave, and her mama’s going crazier than usual and hurting herself. How is any kid supposed to—
“But you’re sorry now, right?” Bayona asked. “And we’re on our way to tell him that, right?”
“Yes,” Necrem replied, unsure why she was asking.
“Then everything will be all right. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you fight with your friends. You say sorry and everything is all better, right?” She grinned up at him, swinging her free arm like she hadn’t a care in the world and had it all figured out.
Necrem smiled softly under his mask, not feeling any stings or pulls from his scars after the amount of salve he had rubbed on them before leaving home.
He rubbed his thumb against her small hand. “Right, Little Miracle,” he said. “You’re so right.”
She giggled and pulled on his hand, trying to swing it with her arms. He let her, of course, making sure it didn’t throw her off balance while they walked.
He marveled at her resilience after everything she had seen and yet remained so innocent. Finding something to be cheerful about, even if it was the simple logic of a child.
I hope she remains cheerful, Necrem prayed, hefting his heavy-laden bag on his shoulder. Savior, please let her be as cheerful for as long as she can.
He feared she would be too scared after what she had seen her mama go through to come with him. He had taken his time packing the things he knew he would need and the things he could afford to lose. He’d changed his boots, putting on his best pair and putting his work pair in the bag. He’d stuffed the insides of his boots with a couple of extra pairs of socks and filled his pockets with spare masks.
The rest of his spare clothes were in his bag, along with his stock of salve for his scars. He had holstered his small sewing kit in the hem of his pants, having no room in his pockets and didn’t want to risk it getting stolen when his bag was eventually ransacked. The tin case was riding his hip bone, though, and starting to hurt.
When he’d been ready, Bayona had wanted to go with him, her face still red and chapped from crying and rubbing it. He couldn’t tell her no. In fact, he needed her to come. He felt lousy doing it, but Necrem hoped Sanjaro would be forgiving enough to hear the plight of his family and show some pity.
They round the corner to Sanjaro’s butcher shop. The street was as quiet as the rest. Now that the nights had returned, there was little light showing the way. Rumor had it the marqués and several well-off quarters in Manosete were putting up streetlamps to light up the night. Here in the slums, though, light either came from lamps in windows or the stars in the sky. Tonight, there were little of both.
Necrem slouched his shoulders when they finally reached Sanjaro’s shop. He figured the shop would be closed, but there were no lights on the second floor, either.
“Oh no,” he said gruffly.
“What’s wrong, Papa?” Bayona asked, tugging his hand.
He grunted. “They’re asleep.”
“Does that mean we have to come back tomorrow?” There was cheerfulness in her voice, a sly, happy hope that hinted she thought he could get to stay longer.
Unfortunately, he knew that couldn’t happen. “No. It means we’re going to have to wake them up.” Again.
The previous events haunted Necrem enough; he didn’t want a repeat. He got a bad feeling he had done this before, though, as he led Bayona to the shop door and began to knock loudly.
No answer came. No movement or light from above.
He knocked again, louder this time, rapping his knuckles against the wood panels and making them sing out over the quiet street.
“Stop that!” an angry woman’s voice shouted.
Necrem groaned. Annette was the last person he wanted to ask for help, and after last time, he was sure he was the last person she wanted see again.
“Who’s down there?” Annette demanded.
Candlelight flickered overhead. Risking a glance upward, Necrem saw he and Bayona were shielded by the building and couldn’t be seen. Instead of risking being turned away from his friend’s wife, he knocked again, harder and more determined.
A frustrated growl came from above, and the candlelight disappeared.
He kept knocking. He had to talk to Sanjaro. He didn’t know how much time he had left, but he had to see his family cared for, even if he returned to jail at daybreak.
Finally, lamps were lit in the shop. Necrem stopped knocking and was stepping back when the door flung open.
“Who the—” Annette’s words violently cut off. She snarled the moment she made him out in the candlelight. “How dare you come back? Get out of here before I call the guards again!”
She tried to slam the door, but Necrem caught it with his foot, grunting from the hard edge digging into the leather and hitting him.
“I need to talk to Sanjaro,” he begged.
“We have nothing to say to a beast like you,” Annette spat. She kicked his foot, but when he didn’t budge, she pulled back the door and slammed it again.
He growled, holding back a curse from the door’s corner smashing the side of his foot, and braced his shoulder, catching another slam before it hit. That made Annette more frantic.
“Help!” Annette screamed. “Our home’s being invaded! Help!”
A cold sweat ran down Necrem’s back. Here and there, lights came on in the other houses. If the guards were called on him a second time, they might send him to the sioneros reserve.
“Sanjaro!” he bellowed. “Sanjaro, please! My family needs you. Eulalia and Bayona, they need you!”
Annette slung the door again, and Necrem’s shoulder gave out. His arm stung from the impact’s hard smack. His footing slipped, and he stumbled away from the door. In the next instant, the door slammed shut.
He stood there a moment, rubbing his shoulder and staring at the door. He couldn’t look down. After everything that had happened tonight, he didn’t want to see the look of disappointment or fear on his little miracle’s face.
She called me a beast. In front of Bayona. He shuddered. How do I explain that? He hung his head, suddenly feeling exhausted on his feet. Maybe I should just take her home and . . . and . . .
He couldn’t think of anything after that. There wasn’t anything after that. No one else to turn to he could trust or ask for help. He would have to leave them. Alone. With nobody to help them.
A still, small knock echoed through the night.
Necrem opened his eyes and saw Bayona up by the door, knocking.
“Hello?” she called. Her knocks were soft compared to his. “Hello? Papa said he has a friend here? He says he’s really sorry for pushing him, and he didn’t mean it.”
Bayona kept knocking. Still, soft, persistent knocks. She kept apologizing for him, too, over and over, saying he was really sorry. Necrem thought he heard other voices, too, but when he looked around, no one had come out to see what was going on, though several lights were still on.
“Hello—”
The door slowly opened and, in the crack, stood Sanjaro, once again struggling to close his nightgown. Necrem was immediately drawn to the wrap of bandages around his head and looked away, his heart heavy by a sudden strike of guilt.
“Hello,” Bayona said. “Are you my papa’s friend?”
Necrem glanced out of the side of his vision. Sanjaro frowned at him with a hurt look on his face.
“I . . . was,” Sanjaro replied.
“Oh.” Bayona rocked on her heels, clearly not sure how to respond to that immediately. “Well, he’s really sorry for shoving you. He didn’t mean it. Do you think you can forgive him?”
Necrem grimaced, his scars pulling and pressing against each other as he stood there and watched his little girl apologize for him. Even though she was doing it without realizing it, it still stung to listen to.
He looked up and caught Sanjaro looking down at her, his frown softening somewhat.
“No . . .” Sanjaro said, sighing. “No, I guess he didn’t mean it. Did they treat you badly, Necrem?”
“Not as bad as they could have,” he replied.
Sanjaro weakly nodded and looked back inside his house. “Well, if . . . if everything is all right—”
“I’m going away, Sanjaro,” he blurted out. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, but . . .”
Sanjaro’s face went white, and his jaw dropped. “Are they sending you to the reserve?”
Necrem shook his head. “Just conscription.”
“Oh.” There was a hint of relief in Sanjaro’s voice, and he licked his lips. “But do they know who you are?”
“They know. I think they knew all along.”
Sanjaro’s shoulders slumped, and his frown returned, more out of pity now. “I’m sorry, Necrem. If there was only something that could be done.”
“I don’t think anything could have been done. I think they had something like this planned from the start. The marqués wants men, and none of the press gangs care where they get them this season. I just have one thing to ask of you.”
“What?”
Necrem patted Bayona on the shoulder, and she grinned up at him. He looked back down at her with furled brows. “Look after Bayona and Eulalia for me, please. You’re the only one I can ask. The only friend that . . . knows.”
Sanjaro’s face hardened. His chin wobbled slightly, and his eyes glistened. “I can do that. It’s the least I can do.”
Necrem gave him a nod of thanks then turned toward the hardest part of the night. Bayona was still grinning up at him, probably thinking two friends had made up and everything was going to better in her innocent, child logic.
He knelt and took her by the shoulder. His pulse quickened. He knew what he had to say but, again, couldn’t find the words. Rather, he couldn’t speak the words. She had heard him tell Eulalia he was going, but now he had to make sure she understood.
He swallowed and squeezed her shoulder, drawing up the last bit of courage before it failed him.
“Papa’s got to go now,” he finally said. “You’ll stay with Sanjaro tonight. He’ll take you home tomorrow and make sure Mama’s all right.”
Bayona’s grin faded into confusion. She blinked and tilted her head. “We’re not going home?”
Necrem shook his head. “If we go home, I might not be able to leave. Then the soldiers will come and . . . take me away forever.”
Bayona gaped in horror. “They can’t do that! That’s not right! That’s not—”
He pulled her in for a tight hug. Her small body trembled against his. She buried her face in his chest, filling his nostrils with the mixed scents of soap, iron, leather, and cooked bacon from her hair.
“It’s not right,” he agreed. “But I have to go. Look after your mama like you always have. Sanjaro will look in on you to make sure you have everything. Just take care of yourself and your mama, and everything will be well.” He gave her a tight hug, his shaking arm matching her shudders.
“But what about you?” She sniffed, rubbing her face and likely snot onto his shirt.
He briefly closed his eyes, forcing the tears back to prevent the last thing she might ever see of her papa was him crying. She still loved and cared about him, even after everything. That’s all he needed.
“Don’t you worry, Bayona,” he replied, patting her back. “Your papa’s a steel-working man. I’ve hammered steel into shape for nights on end until my arms almost fell off. I can go march around the country and back no problem.
“You just got to remember, Bayona”—he pulled her away to look her in the eye—“we’re steel-working people. We’re stronger than steel. That means we can endure anything. And we don’t cry. Right?”
Her face was red again, her eyes puffy, and snot glistened on her nose. She sniffed loudly and tried to make tough face, but it looked like she was pouting.
“Right.” She nodded.
Necrem’s vision began to blur, and he knew his time was up. He ran a finger across her cheeks, wiping her tears, before straightening her hair. “Your papa loves you, Bayona. Always remember that.”
He tilted her head forward so she wouldn’t see him lift his mask. With his partially misshapen, partially missing lips, he kissed her on the top of her head. Then he rose and walked away, taking long, determined strides down the street before she had picked her head back up.
“Papa!” she cried. “Don’t go! Papa!”
The last screech struck him to his core. The dam of frustration, strength, and pain broke, and he began to cry. The salt from his tears ran into his scars, between his exposed gums, and into his mouth. They disturbed the salve, making his face sting.
When he returned to the jail, the guards outside recoiled at his red, swollen face in the morning sun.