Whichwood(23)

Laylee leveled a dark look at her.

Alice flushed crimson.

Laylee winced and looked away, forgetting again to be nice to the strange children. Laylee needed something from them now, and she knew they might not follow her back to her corpses if she didn’t learn to at least pretend to be kind.

“In any case,” said Oliver brightly, “we were just about to head into town. Would you care to join us?”

Laylee raised her eyebrows, stunned, and turned her gaze on Benyamin; the insect-boy smiled as if to endorse Oliver’s invitation, but Laylee shook her head. She cast a careful look in Alice and Oliver’s direction and said, “What exactly have they told you?” She was talking only to Benyamin now. “Do you know yet why they’re here?”

“Oh yes,” said Benyamin, whose eyes seemed to glitter with barely restrained delight. “Such an odd pair, aren’t they? They said they were from Ferenwood. That they’d come all the way here just to help you wash your dead.” Benyamin tilted his head. “In fact, Alice was just telling me all about your evening’s escapades.”

Laylee felt her frozen shoulders thaw. Surprise unclenched her face. And when she next looked Alice in the eye, she said, with great urgency, “Why would you confide such things to a stranger?”

Alice felt her fingers twitch; she wasn’t sure, but she felt that this had to be a trick question. Benyamin was one of the most interesting strangers she’d ever met, and besides, he seemed plenty trustworthy. But the mordeshoor was still waiting for an answer. She was looking expectantly at Alice, and Alice faltered.

“Well,” she said finally. “It was the truth, wasn’t it?”

“But why risk your safety for the truth?”

“Safety? What do y—”

“You know nothing of this land or its people or what your confessions could cost you!” Laylee cried. “The people of Whichwood,” she said darkly, “are not to be trusted.”

“And whyever not?”

“Never mind why not.”

“Begging your pardon,” Benyamin interrupted. “But I think I can speak for myself when I say that I’m perfectly capable of being trusted.”

Laylee clenched her jaw. “Well, we shall see,” she said. “Won’t we?”

Oliver clapped his hands together. “Well!” he said, a touch too loudly. “Now that’s over with—shall we all head into town, then? Mmm?”

“No.” Laylee looked him in the eye. “You and your pale friend said you would help me”—she glanced at Alice—“and now I’m here, asking for your help. I have forty more dead that need washing, and I will require your assistance as soon as possible.”

Oliver blinked.

Alice’s mouth fell open.

Benyamin was leaning against his wheelbarrow, watching the scene unfold with great interest.

“Well?” said Laylee, irritated. “What’s the problem?”

Alice was the first to speak. “You have—you have forty more dead people to wash? Forty more corpses to clean?”

Laylee felt a knot form in her throat. She hadn’t imagined that they would turn her away.

“And we have to wash them all today?” Oliver said, with whispered horror. “All forty of them?”

Laylee felt something inside of her break. “Forget I asked,” she said, stumbling backward. “Never mind. I’ll be fine. You—you offered, so I—I thought—but never mind. I’d better get back to work. Good-bye.”

Oliver caught her arm as she turned to leave.

“Please,” he said earnestly. “Don’t misunderstand me. We’re happy to help. But is there any chance we might be able to take a small break before we dive back in?”

“A break?” Laylee blinked.

“Yes,” said Oliver. He tried to suppress a smile and failed. “You know—perhaps we could eat lunch? Or take a bath? Or maybe find ourselves a fresh set of clothes—”

“I don’t take breaks.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Benyamin, who laughed aloud. He looked at Laylee out of the corner of his eye. “Of all the days to start, let it be tonight! The festivities for Yalda begin this evening, and they’re sure to be spectacular.”

Yalda.

Laylee had nearly forgotten.

“I vote we take our new friends into town and enjoy the evening for a bit,” said Benyamin.

“That sounds wonderful!” cried Alice. “I’d really—”

“No,” said Laylee, eyes wild. “No, I can’t. I have to get back to work—”

“Your work can’t wait a few hours?” This, from Oliver.

Laylee’s lips parted in confusion. “No,” she said, but for the first time, she didn’t seem sure. A few hours? Could she possibly spare a few hours? Oh, her bones were so tired.

“How about this,” said Benyamin. “If you come into town with us—and enjoy the festivities for a bit—I will personally accompany you back to the castle and lend a hand with the washing. Then you’ll have three extra helpers.” He smiled. “How does that sound?”

Laylee was of two minds. The weathered, beaten mordeshoor within her was at war with the thirteen-year-old girl who still lived in her heart. She wanted desperately to be normal—to have friends with whom she might attend a local celebration—but she could not loose herself from the business to which she’d been bolted.