Martha froze. Beyond the floorboards overhead, the crack of soldier boots echoed down the street. She exhaled slowly as they faded into the distance.
“We do not fear,” she began, each word measured. “We hope. Because we all know what’s at stake.”
The word stake was not lost on the Candlemakers.
She stood in the center of the room, commanding the space despite her frailty. Her wrinkled hands moved with practiced ease as she lit the central candle. The flame caught and bloomed, its steady glow softening the etched lines of her face.
The underground meeting space, home of the Candlemakers, was hidden from castle spies and Crown moles. Along the cracked stone walls, candles cast dancing shadows, their restless shapes reflected in the nervous eyes of the few courageous villagers who dared to defy the edicts against religious gatherings—a strictly forbidden act, one that was once the sole devotion of those who were never meant to have souls.
Then, a sound. A slow, groaning creak of wood, the whisper of weight shifting overhead. A footstep. Another. Dust drifted from the rafters, suspended in the candlelight.
A pause.
The trapdoor flung open, its hinges shrieking as the steps unfolded, crashing down into the room.
Not a soul moved.
The door swung open. Marcus entered. A mess of a boy, stiff with grief and rage barely concealed beneath the gravity of his father’s death. A sigh of relief passed through the room.
Martha’s gaze softened. “Marcus,” she said gently, “you came, despite the grief you carry. That strength honors your house. I’m so very sorry.”
The group formed a loose semicircle around them, their faces lit by the flickering light. A farmer, a seamstress: ordinary people were drawn together in the secret room by faith and defiance.
At the edge of the circle stood Oona, her pale coat faintly visible in the dim light. She kept slightly apart, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her stillness a stark contrast to the restless energy of the others.
In the corner, Sarah plucked a gentle tune on the lute, notes curling through the heavy air like smoke.
Marcus dropped his head, silent.
Martha put a hand on his shoulder. “Edric was many things to many people,” she said, deep-set eyes meeting his briefly before sweeping the room.
A hush settled over them. Oona remained expressionless. Marcus lifted his head. “Stop,” he said, harsher than he intended. “He was a bastard.”
Unease rippled through the Candlemakers. Marcus pressed on, his voice trembling slightly.
“Any one of us could have killed him. How many empty chairs are here because of him? Fathers. Sisters. Friends.”
The silence grew.
Marcus exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his damp curls. “He thought only androids believed in God,” he said bitterly.
“That faith was a disease. And we,” he said, gaze sweeping the room, throat working around the words. “We were infected.”
A rustle of unease spread through the Candlemakers.
Marcus’s hands curled into fists. “In his mind, the machines, the Candlemakers, their belief in something more was the sickness. Every android, a Candlemaker. Every Candlemaker, a threat—be it machine… or human.”
His tone steadied, dark with conviction, the fire beneath his grief burning hotter now.
“He told himself the purges weren’t cruelty. They were the cure. And to do nothing? That would be inhumane.”
He lingered a little too long on Oona.
“He thought the androids never left,” Marcus murmured, continuing. “They were still here and hiding among us. Infecting us.”
The accusations hung over them like a blade ready to drop. Oona didn’t flinch, didn’t falter. She stared right back at him.
Marcus swallowed hard. “And that’s why. That’s why he did what he did.” His breath shook. His hands shook. “My father.”
Martha inched closer, her hand firm on his shoulder. “We’ll pray for him,” she said. “I hope he was saved. It’s never too late for any of us.”
The villagers exchanged uneasy glances. Then, one by one, heads bowed. Murmured amens rippled through the room, quiet but present. Some whispered it. Some didn’t say it at all. Marcus hesitated.
Then, so quietly it could have been lost in the sound of the lute, he said, “Amen.”