Sarah sat at the edge of her bed and watched as Mari moved about the chambers—stoking the small fire, laying out fresh linens with hands that trembled slightly despite her efforts to hide them.
Mari winced as she bent to retrieve a fallen cloth, her movements stiff as she straightened.
“Are you in pain?” Sarah asked, breaking the coded silence between them.
Mari froze, her back to Sarah. She had been performing her duties in near silence, looking at Sarah occasionally as if she expected to be scolded or struck. The girl was perhaps a year older than Sarah, with straw-colored hair pulled back in a severe braid and a freckled face that rarely smiled.
“No, miss.” The lie was obvious in the tightness of her voice.
The early morning light filtered weakly through the high windows of Sarah’s room, drenching the stone walls in a gauzy haze and throwing their shapes in long shadows against the furs and stone floor.
“You don’t have to call me miss,” she said. “I’m just Sarah.”
Mari turned, her expression wary. “It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Proper?” Sarah let out a bitter laugh. “I was a Candlemaker’s ward a week ago. I’ve slept in barns and eaten scraps. There is nothing proper about any of this.” She gestured to the grand chamber around them.
Curiosity overtaking caution, Mari stared at the pendant that hung visibly around Sarah’s neck, not hidden beneath her collar as it usually was.
“That’s new,” Mari said, suggestively.
Sarah’s fingers automatically moved to touch it. “Yes.”
Mari held back, then ventured, “You know people are talking. About you and Master Kael.”
Sarah’s face warmed. “It’s not like that.”
“No?” Mari’s eyebrows lifted. “The Crown’s man gives you gifts, and suddenly you’re in the east wing instead of the servants’ quarters.”
“It’s not a gift,” Sarah said, though the words felt dishonest somehow. “It’s… a promise.” She met Mari’s gaze directly. “And I’m in this room because Elena wants me where she can watch me.”
Mari’s posture eased. She glanced toward the door, then spoke quietly. “They say you’re the last of the Candlemakers. That you know things.”
Sarah tensed. “What sort of things?”
“Their weird ways, their magic. And… remedies,” Mari said simply. She looked around, then rolled up her sleeve to reveal her forearm. The skin was mottled with a rash, angry red patches disappearing up under her sleeve.
“But it’s not only this. My hands…” She held them out, and Sarah could see the slight unnatural curve of the fingers, the swelling at the joints. “And my back. It’s getting worse.”
Sarah studied the rash, careful not to touch. “How long?”
“A year, maybe more.” Mari spoke with no emotion. “Started with just the ache in my fingers. Now I can hardly button a dress some mornings.”
Sarah thought of Oona, of her knowing hands, and the herbs she always carried. But as she considered Mari’s affliction, something strange happened to her. The knowledge bloomed in her mind and information she had never learned suddenly crystallized into certainty.
It wasn’t memory, exactly. More like the cosmos itself opened inside her skull, with vast networks of knowledge assembling themselves, and connections forming between disparate facts. She could almost see the molecular structures of the herbs, suddenly understanding their interactions with human tissue down to the cellular level.
The realization hit her like a sudden sickness, a rush of clarity that made her hands rush to her temples. A flash of heat rose behind her eyes, an overwhelming pressure building in her head, like too many voices speaking at once. It hurt.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the sensation ebbed. But the knowledge remained.
“There’s something that might help,” Sarah said slowly, disoriented by the sudden consciousness. “A tincture with black willow bark as the base, meadowsweet for the inflammation, devil’s claw to restore flexibility to the joints…”
She trailed off, momentarily lost in the strange sensation of knowing things she had never learned.
Hope flashed across Mari’s face. “You know how to make it?”
Snapping back, Sarah nodded. “I’d need some herbs. Black willow bark, meadowsweet, devil’s claw…”
“I don’t think those grow in the castle gardens,” Mari said, plainly disappointed.
“No,” Sarah agreed. “But the market herbwoman would have them.”
Mari rolled her sleeve down, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t afford such things, and I’m not allowed to leave the castle anyway.” She straightened, resuming her duties with the same painful stiffness as before.
“What if I could get them?” Sarah asked. The question surprised even her.
Mari stopped and looked back. “You shouldn’t be leaving the castle either, not with the avalanche and the purges. People…” She broke off, then continued. “They’re talking about you. Like you’re to blame.”
Sarah’s gaze drifted to the window, to the sliver of town visible beyond the castle walls. “Maybe. But I can find my way around…”
Mari studied her carefully. “Why would you risk it? For me?”
Sarah considered the question. Why indeed? This girl had been cool and distant, openly acknowledging the castle gossip about Sarah’s status. But Sarah thought of Kael’s words.
We live with our mistakes, you and I. And we make it right.
“Because I know what it’s like,” Sarah said finally. “To feel your body isn’t what it should be.”
Mari studied her for a long moment, then nodded once. A silent understanding passed between them. She reached into her apron pocket and withdrew a small cloth purse that clinked with the few coins inside. “It’s all I have,” she said, holding it out.
Sarah shook her head. “Keep it. I’ll find another way.”
Sarah moved with purpose, a small basket hooked over her arm, her fingers drifting to the pendant at her chest. She only needed the herbs. Get in, get out.
Then.
“Sarah.”
She froze, recognizing the voice immediately.
Jory stood with a knot of boys near the baker’s stall, gesturing as he spoke. His audience—four castle boys she recognized from the kitchens and stables—hung on his every word, their faces bright with amusement.
Sarah’s cloak was pulled tightly around her shoulders. She walked with her head low, her hood concealing her face. The fine dress was gone, replaced with simpler garments: sturdy boots, woolen trousers, a plain tunic cinched at the waist with a leather belt. She blended, but she could still feel the weight of eyes, not just Jory’s.
And the usual clamor of bartering and haggling had taken on a sharper edge. The few merchants who remained had thinned their displays, their meager stock spread out across tables to make it seem like more.
A few pigs hung limp on a butcher’s hooks, their ribs jutting sharp beneath their hides. A handful of withering apples sat in a crate. The baker’s stall had a few rounds of black bread.
Winter was loosening its grip, but spring came reluctantly to these heights; piles of dirty snow, compacted and streaked with soot, still sat in the corners of the square where the roads had been cleared. Everyone’s breath clouded before them.
Jory was laughing—easy and carefree, like nothing had changed at all. Like he hadn’t looked at her like she was a monster that night in her chambers.
Sarah should have walked away and ignored him. But she didn’t.
She turned slightly, enough to see his face. A sickness churned inside her. Jory’s laughter died the moment he caught her movement. The casual lightness in his face evaporated.
“I didn’t—”
Sarah cut him off with nothing more than a look. And then she walked right past him. And when she did, her shoulder lightly touched his as they passed.
And in that moment, she saw the pain that flashed across his face, quickly replaced by a forced smirk as he turned back to the boys.
“Anyway,” he said too loudly, “like I was saying…”
Sarah didn’t hear the rest. She didn’t care to. She locked onto her target: the herb seller’s table. The old woman saw her approach and nodded, already reaching for the bundles of dried plants Sarah needed.
The transaction was quick. Too quick. She wasn’t paying attention because something, or someone, moved behind her.
Two of Jory’s friends had shifted, standing a little too casually in her way. Sarah’s fingers tightened around her basket.
“Excuse me,” she said flatly.
They didn’t move and they weren’t looking at her. They were pretending to be in their own conversation, standing directly in her way.
“Did you hear?” the taller one said, dripping with mock innocence. “They’re saying a Candlemaker burned at the stake and came back to life. Walks around town at night, looking for children who aren’t in bed.”
The other boy smirked.
“My cousin saw her. Said her skin was melted off on one side—gears and springs underneath.”
A cold chill crept up Sarah’s spine. Martha was human. And if she were alive, she’d whip these mutts.
The tall one took a half-step closer.
“They say there are other Candlemakers. Hiding among us. Not really people at all.”
His gaze slid over Sarah, deliberately slow.
Sarah squinted. “Move,” she said.
The other boy didn’t smirk this time. “What’s your hurry, witch? Got some candles to make?”
Sarah was done. She marched ahead, without so much as flinching. “The only spell I know,” she said calmly, quietly, “turns annoying boys into smelly rats, which they already are anyway.”
It was enough to get the tall one’s attention. He laughed, but it was forced. “She’s threatening us now. Hear that? What do you think the Castle Lady would say about threats from a Candlemaker’s pet?”
The mention of Elena sent a cold shiver down Sarah’s spine. She took a breath, ready to push past them.
Then came the crash.
A cart had overturned near the well, heavy barrels tumbling free. People scattered, voices rising in alarm. One barrel, larger than the rest, broke loose from its bindings.
And a child stood frozen in its path.
Time slowed.
Sarah moved. Her body responded with impossible precision, calculations running through her mind faster than conscious thought.
Three strides, and she was there. She scooped the child into her arms, pivoting on one foot, momentum carrying her in a smooth arc as the barrel missed them by inches. But it was still rolling—right toward an elderly man who hadn’t moved fast enough.
Sarah reacted. Transferring the child to her left arm, she extended her right hand, her palm connecting with the barrel’s side.
She pushed. Not frantically, but with calibrated force. The barrel slowed and wobbled, and then settled harmlessly against a market stall.
The entire sequence had taken maybe five seconds. Meanwhile, the market had gone silent. Sarah just stood there; the child still clutched against her chest. And as the little boy squirmed in her arms, she set him carefully down.
“Did you see that?” someone said under their breath.
“How did she move so fast?”
“No one could stop a barrel that size with one hand, yet a child—”
Sarah staggered back, suddenly aware of how exposed she was. Her basket lay forgotten, herbs scattered across the cobblestones. The crowd’s murmurs grew louder and their stares more intent.
The boys gaped. “She’s one of them,” the tall one said.
But Jory came forward.
“It was the slope,” Jory said, loud enough for everyone to hear. He gestured to the market’s slight incline. “The barrel was slowing down, and she just guided it. Anyone could’ve done the same.”
Sarah stared, masking her surprise.
The child’s mother burst through the crowd, sobbing. She clasped Sarah’s hands. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
Sarah only nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Jory bent, retrieving her basket. As he handed it to her, he said, “You dropped this.”
Sarah took it, searching his eyes. Jory hesitated before speaking, finally saying, “I don’t know what you are,” he said finally. “But I know who you are.”
And then, he walked away. Sarah stood rooted in place. The whispers and suspicion remained. She looked down at her hands.
She had felt it, too. The thing that made them stare, the thing rising in her.
And for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she should run from it… or toward it.