The Blood Spell (Ravenspire, #4)(27)
“Sorry about what?” Her voice shook too, the fear that had pushed her out of the shop becoming a jagged knife that sliced into every thought.
“Your papa is . . . Carlson, the farrier two streets over, was out late shoeing horses. He found him. Found your papa, I mean.”
“Where is he?” Her words came out loud and high.
“I’m sorry,” Normand repeated. “I went to the farmhouse first, but you weren’t there, so I thought I’d try the shop next.”
“Normand, where is Papa?” She couldn’t feel her lips. Couldn’t understand how the words made it across her tongue when everything inside her felt paralyzed.
“He’s dead, Blue. I saw it for myself. I’m sorry.”
She wrenched herself out of his grip. “He’s not.”
“I checked and double-checked. I wish I had different news.” Normand stood there, shoulders bent, hands hanging in the air like he didn’t know what to do with them. Didn’t know how to help her.
There was no help for her. Not if his words were true.
“Where is he?” She whispered the words as the terrifying idea that he was telling the truth took root and burrowed toward her bones.
“I’ve sent for someone to collect him—”
“Where?” She clutched the halberd so hard, her fingers ached.
Normand was silent for a long moment, and then he said quietly, “The side of the road, just beyond the merchant district. Looks like someone surprised him from behind and stabbed him in the neck.”
She stood in front of him for a long moment, her heart thunder in her ears, and then the halberd clattered onto the cobblestones as she dropped it and ran.
Papa was right where Normand had said he’d be. His summer cloak had been arranged over his body. Normand’s doing, she was sure.
She dropped to her knees and reached a shaking hand toward the cloak that hid his face.
Maybe it wasn’t him.
It was so dark outside. Normand could be mistaken.
If she didn’t move the cloak, if she didn’t look, it could be someone else. She could get up and walk the rest of the way to the farmhouse, and Papa would be inside. Her dinner would be on a covered plate kept warm in the stove. Pepperell would complain that she’d been gone so long. And Papa . . . Papa would be asleep in his chair, his book fallen against his chest.
She held that image in her mind, let it glow with hope, as her hand slowly met the coarse linen of the cloak and pulled it back.
The image disintegrated, and a low sound of raw agony tore its way through Blue.
It was Papa.
His beloved eyes were closed. His neck torn open on one side. The heavy, metallic smell of blood filled the air.
It was Papa.
Her body shuddered and the dark corner of her heart where she kept her memories of Mama and the root cellar opened wide and swallowed her.
She curled herself over the top of him, clutching at his cloak, while the air left her body. She couldn’t cry. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t breathe.
It was Papa.
And she was utterly lost.
ELEVEN
IT HAD BEEN four days since someone had killed Papa. Blue had moved through the hours, a stranger in her own skin. She’d eaten when Grand-mère put something in front of her, though the food tasted like dust. She’d slept when Grand-mère gently pushed her toward her room. She’d said things when it was expected of her, nodded her acceptance of the funeral arrangements, and vaguely registered the presence of a steady stream of townsfolk coming by with food and iron chimes and kind words. Twice the warning bells along the road to the wraith’s prison rang, their discordant melody scraping against Blue’s nerves until she wanted to scream.
How could she worry about a distant, caged monster when a monster on the streets of her city had already taken what was most precious to her?
Through it all, her heart beat, though it sent a dull throb of pain through her every time she thought of Papa. Her lungs breathed, though it felt like there was a chain wrapped around her chest, pulling tighter with every passing day.
She’d spent most of those four days sitting at the edge of their property staring at the sea, pretending she hadn’t stayed late at the shop. That Papa hadn’t left to come bring her home. That someone hadn’t torn his life away from him with one vicious choice.
That she hadn’t lied to Papa about the real danger they were in.
Her eyes were dry. Her voice hollow. Somewhere inside her, a howling storm of grief threatened, but she shied away from it. If she didn’t touch it, it couldn’t hurt her. If she didn’t look it in the eye, it wouldn’t rip her apart at the seams.
The day of Papa’s funeral dawned bright and golden. Blue stood on the little hill behind their garden and tried not to stare at the hole in the ground beside Mama’s grave. The priest spoke his words, the bell girl rang her chimes in between homilies, and a crowd gathered behind Blue—a mix of the wealthy, the merchants, and the poor. Even the royal family was in attendance, though Blue couldn’t remember when they’d arrived. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she not look at his grave. Not listen to the words that praised his life of kindness and generosity.
Not let the storm within take control.
A sea hawk circled far overhead, and Blue followed his flight with her eyes. The summer heat was a damp, thick covering on her skin, and she imagined she was in the water. Swimming out to the field of golden sea vines that covered the floor of the Chrysós Sea and gave it its color. She’d swim with strong, sure strokes, farther than she ever had before. She’d dive, grasp the delicate rubbery vines with her fingers, and uproot them with a single tug.