By month six, she’d finally reached stability. She no longer had to count every tiny purchase and avoid the pricier merchants despite their better quality in food, but even now, she still followed those habits. The numbers weighed in her mind like a balanced scale, such that when she spent too much, it was almost as if she felt heavier, and when she struck a strong deal with the merchants, her feet glided of their own accord, practically skipping off the ground as if she were walking across mattresses. Everything had seemed stabilized at that point. Sure, there were challenges, but nothing she couldn’t handle.
Until Gervis arrived.
Now Merrill sat before the picture of Abigail in Fel’s bedroom, a portrait he had paid for years before, when she had been younger than Merrill. In one hand, she held her makeup, and in the other, a mirror, squinting as she carefully drew the lines. In the past few months, her use of powders and pencils had greatly improved. While she was certainly not enough of an expert to match those whose livelihood was to prepare rich women for parties, she was talented enough to instill a likeness. Before she applied the powders, she folded in a sprinkling of goldleaf, just barely enough to cover the tip of her thumb. Goldleaf and silverdale were actually grown from the same seeds, but adopted to the additives in the soil, taking on their form based on the planter’s desire. Their powdered petals bore the same properties—while far from perfect, they enhanced objects to appear as the user desired. Never as strong as the original, and gaudy if used in excessive amounts, but just a pinch could provide a slight indication. Like adding jewelry to increase one’s beauty- tactfully, it worked well, but too much destroyed all illusion.
When Merrill finished, she stared at the picture for a moment, her eyes alternating between the captured face and the mirror. Based on Fel’s remarks, Abigail would have a few years on her, but not that many, and Merrill was already practiced at adding age to herself. Beyond that, the changes were simple: slightly more arched eyebrows, fuller lips, a little extra weight upon the cheeks. Their eyes and hair were already the same color, and their faces the same shape, which was likely why Fel had mistaken her in his later life. She looked close enough already that the mistake was more a step than a leap.
A strange coincidence that we look so similar, she thought, as her mind drifted back to the day that Fel had found her on the streets. She blinked, her eyebrows scrunching together for a moment. Had that been why Fel had taken her in? Because she looked like Abigail? Had the bouts of dementia begun back then, and maybe he really did believe she was Abigail? She shook her head, pushing the idea away. No, Fel had shown no signs of mental incapacity back then, and if he had taken her in because she looked like Abigail, what of it? He had still adopted her, even if that was due to some sort of base level recognition and pity. He was still the closest thing she had to a father.
Merrill found Abigail’s clothes in a trunk in Fel’s closet, and after trying a few on, discovered a dress that could be adjusted with the waist strap to fit properly. It fell slightly too low to the floor, and she folded the end inward, pinning it up until satisfied with her reflection. Then she made her way to the foyer, using that day to run the numbers for taxes and the lenders, keeping herself clean aside from the blue ink that stained the sides of her palms. And when the three sharp knocks came, she was ready.
Fel had always been fond of spicy food and had grown his own small collection of peppers on the kitchen windowsill for seasoning. Merrill couldn’t stomach the heat, but also hadn’t let the plants die out. To do so would feel like a betrayal to Fel, as if she had mismanaged his entire garden. She picked one, crushing it in her palm as she rose to answer the door, then flicking the juiced skin into a bag at her side. She drew in a sharp breath, then bit her lip, bringing her fingers to her eyes and rubbing them in.
A tingling began behind her eyelids as she reached for the door knob. By the time that she twisted it, the tingling became searing pain. And when she opened, it turned to burning fire, her eyes streaming as she gasped, falling down onto the blurred figure before her and wrapping him in a tight embrace.
“Unhand me! You cannot get away with assault upon an enforcer of the law, you–” Gervis began, but he faltered as sobs racked through her, sobs that were a mix of the peppers and her performance.
“My lady, my lady, you must gain control of yourself. Whatever is the matter, we’ll have this sorted out,” he said, shifting uncomfortably. She pulled back, her hands still on his shoulders, trying to squint through the peppers as tears streamed down her face.
“By the heavens!” he exclaimed, pulling her inside her own home. “What has happened?”
“I’m just so s-scared, I’ve been crying for hours,” Merrill wheezed, gritting her teeth to prevent crying out in pain. “You don’t understand! I don’t want to get into trouble, I never meant for this to happen! I don’t know what to do!”
“Well that is what the Keepers are here for, Ms. To serve and protect. You are in good hands now, just tell me everything. Here, let me give you some water, and a towel.”
He placed her in a chair, and she heard a pitcher of water pouring. Already she could not see, and her face must have been turning redder and more swollen than a beet. She accepted the water, then dipped the towel in under the pretense of cleaning off her makeup, but rather squeezed the liquid water into her eyes. There was aloe in that water, meant to soothe her, that she had prepared beforehand. She had not anticipated Gervis to actually give it to her- and even now, he offered it not out of kindness. She could hear the barely concealed excitement behind his words, the elation of a fighter finding their enemy flat footed and weaponless. The coaxing words to pull from her the confession that would lead to her immediate downfall.
“Now go on, why don’t you tell me just what happened?” Gervis asked, then motioned behind him to a second person who entered the room. A guard, armed but sliding his sword back into its sheath. Merrill was lucky she hadn’t been run through when falling onto Gervis, likely more from the shock of her than anything else, and the guard was no longer here for protection. No, he was meant to be a witness.
“It’s Fel!” Merrill managed to say, the burning starting to fade as she sniffled, wiping away the snot with the same towel that had been on her eyes and casting it away, then looking downcast at the table. “I just don’t think I’m doing as good of a job as he would want me to do.”
“I’m sure he’s proud of you, Ms. You’ve been doing a wonderful job from what I hear, striking deals with the merchants and running this operation, right?”
“Oh, you really think so? I have, haven’t I?”
Gervis nodded to the guard, who returned the gesture. An admission that she was handling the affairs of the estate.
“Of course I do. And Fel, what about him? Where has he gone, to leave you with such a responsibility?”
“I… I’m not sure I should tell you that.”
“Come now, come now, we’re your friends! Right, Algean?”
“Friends,” confirmed the guard, with a toothy smile so forced it looked as if he were going to bite her.
“Well, alright. The thing is, I don’t know if I should say this, but... Fel is dead.”
“And where would it be? The body, that is?”
“In the garden! I buried him in the garden, where he belongs. And oh, I’ve been so scared trying to run this in his absence. You wouldn’t believe how many merchants I’ve had to deal with, or the special materials for plants that I’ve had to buy. I’m so happy you’re here now for me.”
“Indeed. Indeed we are. Ha! And now we have you!” exclaimed Gervis, and he gestured to Algean, who produced a pair of manacles. “Under witness of this guard, you have admitted to running a highly restricted business for which you have no license. Such a crime is on the order of treason. You are under arrest, to be tried by the Keepers themselves.”
“Under arrest?” wailed Merrill, as the manacles clasped around her wrists, the cold steel loose against her bones and obviously made for
someone much larger. “Under arrest? I thought you were my friend!”
“I am an enforcer of the law. My friends are those who abide by it.”
“How could this happen to me? First, my father dies and leaves me here alone. I even had to bury him.”
Gervis pulled on the chain attached to the manacles, forcing her to her feet as she kept speaking.
“Then he leaves me alone to tend his business, and protect the family estate. I didn’t even want this.”
Gervis stopped cold, whipping around to face her as she continued.
“And now I’m being arrested for it too! Just for trying to keep his legacy alive.”
Gervis’ eyes widened, and he yanked on the manacle chain, pulling her close.
“Girl, what is your name? Are you saying Fel was your father?”
“Abigail! Of course he’s my father, who else would he be?”
Gervis turned to the guard, then back to her.
“Our records indicate that the only descendant of Fel died some ten years before. You are claiming to be her, the deceased? Come now, that makes no sense. How can this be?”
“I didn’t die, I was almost murdered,” Merrill said, “When I was younger, someone tried to kill me. But Fel, father, he was able to revive me, using some of his rarest plants. That’s why I didn’t want to tell anyone he is dead, because someone else wants me dead, and I’ve had to hide all these years in fear! Father even reported my death to keep me safe.”
“And you’ve been just hiding here? Lady, to impersonate your death is a serious crime.”
“I never did! It was Fel, not me!”
“Who is now dead,” said Algean, and Gervis rolled his eyes in irritation at the statement.
“Yes, Algean. Thank you for the commentary. This requires more investigation. Algean, unlock her. Abigail, we will need any paperwork related to Fel’s death. His will, his debts, his titles, everything.”
“Oh my, I only know where some of that is. Do you think you could help me find the rest?”
Gervis’s eye took on a gleam once more as he answered that, as the trap he had closed prematurely reopened.
“Of course, my lady. We’ll be back shortly, and then we can discover what we need to in order to close this case. Rest easy. Remember, just as you said, we are your friends.”
“Friends,” echoed Algean, and they both departed, Gervis shoving him out through the door.
Three hours later, two dozen men arrived at Merrill’s door, and she held it open to allow them to enter. They searched the house from top to bottom, emptying trunks, dumping drawers, lifting mattresses, and even checking for Fel’s body in the garden, leaving it untouched after they unearthed a decomposed hand. But again, Merrill had prepared- she’d made touches to Abigail’s room that she had been using as her own, using little details from Fel’s journals such as her love of seashells and the color of roses. Carefully, in Fel’s own hand, she’d altered several of his journals to hint he had kept her alive and added a section of him nursing her back to health after the attempted murder, then she'd hidden it deep within his files. Nothing too obvious, nothing for Gervis to easily grasp, but clues that, when he found them, would be all the more convincing.
And when Gervis left that day, after supervising the dismantling of the estate, Merrill knew he would have three things.
The will, made out to Abigail, long before and never changed. Surely, if she had not survived, Fel would have created a new one.
The license, with Abigail written at the bottom, to carry on Fel’s legacy.
And the pieces to a puzzle that all indicated that she was who she claimed: Fel’s daughter, in hiding for fear of her own life, finally seeing the light of day once again. When Gervis returned the next day, it looked as if he had swallowed a lemon whole—his face soured, and hunched over as if in pain.
“Abigail, it is by the authority of the Keepers that I instate you as Fel’s heir. The papers are in accordance, and you are in no breach of the law, considering the actions were committed by Fel. We cannot express greater remorse that you were living in fear for all these years. If we could have prevented that, believe me, we would have.”
He handed the papers back to Merrill, bowing as he retreated back from the doorway. Then he paused, before disappearing once more to retreat onto the street.
“There are few essence manufacturers in this city, and fewer every year. It seems they have a knack for dying out. If you wish to sell that license, I’m sure the Keepers would compensate you generously. Enough to live out the rest of your life in comfort.”
“I see it as less competition. More soil for me to take root in, now the competition is gone.”
“Ah, indeed. But sometimes, it is the soil itself that prevents the growth. Good day, Abigail. Should you reconsider, meet with the Keepers. It’s in your best interest.”
Chapter 25: Draysky
“The shale claims. The shale claims. The shale claims.”
The words rang hollow around Draysky, the funeral reaching its end as he stood still in shock, Aila crying quietly beside him, and his grandmother with a face of stone. After death on the outpost, the shale would claim the bodies. The dead would be buried in coffins that stood point up, only halfway submerged beneath the surface, like tombstones. As the shale rose, it would cover them, sucking them down to the depths.
But for that to happen, there should still be bodies. All that was left of his mother and father could be fit within a box shorter than his shins.
More people attended the funeral than any other gathering that Draysky had ever seen, aside for the Silver Keeper assemblies. Every woman who had born a child in the last decade was there, remembering the special care Draysky’s mother had given to them, the herbs that had made passing easier, and the scarcity of deaths during birth compared to the times before. Faces scarred with a sickness that had plagued the town six years before bowed low before her grave—until she had found that combination of roots that alleviated the symptoms, once the bumps had shown on someone’s skin, the family already began preparing for the funeral. Afterwards, any who caught the disease were cured before the fifth bump could form. There were at least a dozen ridgers who showed the imprints of stitching on their limbs, including Burnsby, who had folded up his right pant leg for the occasion. There, a long, thin scar ran up his calf, from when he had slipped on a dark night returning from the mountain as a storm brewed overhead. Everyone had whispered he would lose the leg, and the Keeper in charge of the crew was ready to amputate it until two other ridgers hefted him onto a makeshift stretcher, sliding him the remaining mile back to the outpost. For two weeks straight, Draysky’s mother tended the wound, sewing it shut and treating the infection from the ripped sleeves the ridgers used to staunch the bleeding.
After those two weeks, Burnsby walked once again, with barely a limp.
There were those whose stomachs had soured, those whom fever had nearly claimed, those who had broken limbs or sustained cuts so deep that they should have killed them. Those with toothaches so severe they had cried deep into the night, and those with the odd assortment of lumps she had removed from deep under the skin.
And toward the back, there was even a small collection of Keepers who had come to his mother when their own medicines had failed them. This far away from civilization, many common cures were unavailable to them. In their darkest hour, when they feared for their lives, they had come to her in secret in the night, and though they may never have told the others where they had found a cure, neither had they forgotten.
Then there were the ridgers, standing in a solid line, not a single one among them missing. Draysky’s father had been the next among them to rise to the position of liaison with the Keepers after Burnsby, and was already the leader of his own team. More than a dozen of the ridgers he had personally trained. Beyond that, at least a handful owed him their lives—for spotting the signs of the Grinder about to erupt, or the telltale fray of a rope about to snap, or arguing with
a Keeper to delay their trek on the days particularly dangerous from lack of light.
As the crowd prepared to depart, Burnsby raised his voice from the far end of the ridgers, where they stood in a line beside him.
“A man worth his crystal. Few are chiseled from the same material, and he died the most honorable way that any of us knows—protecting his wife from the jaws of a monster. A monster that he raised pickaxe against, when it should never have made it to his home.”
He cast a look at the Keepers, who averted their eyes, staring instead at the empty coffins in the shale.
“He shall be remembered!” shouted Burnsby, and to his side, the other ridgers bellowed.
“He shall be remembered!”
In one motion, they hefted their pickaxes and brought them crashing to the ground, chips of shale flying as they buried the heads. Dust kicked up in the air, and they shrank away, leaving their tools behind. There they would remain until the next shift, in homage to Draysky's father.
Only Burnsby remained, and he pulled Draysky aside, leaving behind the row of pickaxes.
“It ain’t fair, what’s been done to you. One parent, yes, but both? That is a sour stroke of fate. Draysky, your father was a strong man, and I’m sure he would want the same from you. Already I see it, in the way you tend the ridge. Now, it is time to bring that home as well. Time to support your grandmother and sister, as he once did you.
“You’ll be needing to repair your home. Until then, I can provide for your housing. The ridgers will pull together what we can to aid you, but times are rough, as they always are. While there are many who would lend a hand, there are few who can lend coin.
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