Whichwood(12)

“Please,” he said, looking her in the eye. He placed a warm hand atop her tired one as he took the burden over. “Let me do this.”

Laylee snatched away her hand and scowled, launching a feeble protest in the process (she didn’t really want to keep lugging the cart, but her pride would not let her relinquish the load without a struggle), but Oliver would not be moved. Laylee, who had not anticipated any part of this conversation, was so surprised by his insistence that she was rendered, for a moment, speechless. Any help at all was more than she’d ever had, but this was more than she’d expected even from her guests. It was a small gesture, yes—but Laylee was so unused to kindness that even the thinnest acts of consideration soothed the tired heart inside her.

Finally, gratefully, she surrendered.

She and Alice stood together silently as Oliver dragged the heavy cart through the muck, and Laylee looked on in quiet contemplation as his figure shrank into the distance.

“Alice,” Laylee said suddenly.

Alice was so stunned to be spoken to that she nearly jumped in place. “Y-yes?” she said.

“What’s he worth?”

“Who?” said Alice quickly. “Oliver?”

“Yes. This boy.” Laylee nodded toward Oliver’s retreating form. “Is he trustworthy?”

“Trustworthy?” This, Alice had to think about. “Well,” she said carefully. “Yes, I think so.”

“You think so?”

“That is—I’m fairly certain. It’s just that he used to be the most horrible liar.” Alice laughed. “He has the magic of persuasion, you know. Complicates things a bit.”

Laylee turned to look at her now, alarmed. “Persuasion?”

Alice nodded. “He can make people think and do anything he wants. And goodness knows”—she laughed again—“he used to be awful about it.” But then, noticing the look of horror on Laylee’s face, she said quickly, “Oh, but I wouldn’t worry about it, really! He’s much better now!”

Too late.

Laylee had gone cold. Her eyes went dark; her lips went still. She looked away. She seemed suddenly and inexplicably angry and, taking a deep breath, she clasped her gloved hands together too tightly.

Alice—who’d said exactly the wrong thing—felt Laylee’s unexpected moment of friendship slipping away and began to flounder. She knew she had to take advantage of any opportunities to make progress with Laylee; after all, Alice still had no real idea what she was supposed to be doing here, and she was growing desperate. Unfortunately, desperation made her reckless.

“Laylee,” she said quickly. “If you would only trust me—if you would only tell me what’s wrong—”

Laylee stiffened. “Why do you keep insisting that something is wrong with me?”

“No! No—not, not wrong with you,” said Alice hastily, “just that there might be something bothering you.” She hesitated, crossed her fingers, and said, “Is there something bothering you? Something you’d like to talk about?”

Laylee looked incredulously at Alice (Laylee was beginning to think Alice was a bit soft in the head) before gesturing across the endless field of dirty, melting snow, its dead bodies and empty caskets, and said, “Something bothering me? What do you think is bothering me? Do you think I enjoy this line of work? Do you think I’m thrilled to be the sole mordeshoor for a land of eighty thousand people?”

“N-no,” said Alice, who was already feeling terrified. “But I just thought, perhaps there’s something else—some other reason why I was sent here. You see, I have a very particular kind of magic,” she rushed on, “and mine isn’t much good for washing dead bodies, so I was wondering—”

“Let me be clear,” said Laylee, whose expression had gone so cold Alice had to resist the impulse to shudder. “I did not ask you to be here. I did not ask for your help. If you don’t want to work—if washing dead bodies is beyond your particular kind of magic—you are free to go. In fact,” Laylee said carefully, her voice sharp and forbidding, “it might be best if you left right now.”

And with that, she charged off into the distance, toward Oliver and her many wooden coffins, and left Alice all alone and heartbroken in the slush.

For Alice Alexis Queensmeadow, things weren’t going at all according to plan.





Laylee couldn’t be bothered to care.

She was too sensitive to Alice’s repeated insinuations that there might be something wrong with her, and it made her cruel and defensive. Laylee threw up new walls, feeling more vulnerable by the moment, and struggled to ignore the sudden, unprecedented tremor in her hands. Still, she marched forward through the sludge, taking in rapid lungfuls of the crisp fresh air, and clenched her fists to keep them steady. Oliver was just up ahead, waiting patiently beside a tall stack of coffins. He caught her eye and smiled, his violet eyes crinkling in delight, and Laylee was so startled by the sight of it she felt something stumble inside of her. It was such a strange, unexpected sensation that for a moment—a very brief moment—Laylee thought she might cry. She wouldn’t, of course, but she did solemnly wish she could afford to fall apart every once in a while.

In any case, Laylee did not return Oliver’s smile.