by Bobby Adair
Fitz nodded absently.
Ginger took Fitz's hand and led her down a side street, whispering as they walked, "There's an empty house just down this road."
Fitz shook her head and pulled her hand away. "The people from the other towns. They've taken every empty space."
"I know of one place that is empty."
"How do you know it's empty?" Fitz asked, looking down the dark street, suspicious.
Ginger shook her head slowly, started to say something, and then stopped.
"What?" Fitz asked, as though she'd discovered a hidden truth.
"You should be afraid. You should be careful whom you trust now. All those market women and merchant's wives who you thought were your friends, who you thought were with you…" Ginger's voice trailed off.
"What are you saying?" asked Fitz.
"What did they do in the Temple? What did they do when it was time to stand up for what they wanted? They did nothing."
Tears escaped Fitz's eyes. "Neither did we."
"We were pushed against the wall," said Ginger as they continued walking. "We had no weapons. What could we do?"
"Perhaps it was the same with them," Fitz argued. "Perhaps they had no weapons, either. I know you don't like them, but they're loyal. They suffer. All women in Brighton suffer."
"Perhaps," groused Ginger. "Please listen to me. You're distraught. Don't let your emotions make your choices. Use your head. It will be hard, but trust me. I know how you feel."
"How could you know?" Fitz asked. Ginger had been in The House of Barren Women for a handful of years. She no longer had a man who loved her. She had no children, and her family hated her. That was the case with a lot of the Barren Women.
"Do you think you're the only one who has lost someone tonight?"
"I…"
"I lost my sister," said Ginger before turning away. "When it started, I saw her in the aisle. She was with us."
"I've never heard you talk of a sister before," said Fitz.
"Who does in The House?" said Ginger. "None of us have families that accept us anymore."
Fitz didn't disagree.
"When my husband sent me to The House, my sister behaved as if I'd died. When I saw her on the street, she pretended not to see me. Her feelings towards me changed, even though mine never did."
"Did she get away?" Fitz asked.
Ginger shook her head. "I saw her go under one of the horses."
"I'm sorry," said Fitz.
Ginger pointed down the road. "Her house is down there. Her daughter was taken in the last Cleansing. Her husband marched out with the Militia. The house is empty. You can stay there." Ginger tugged at Fitz's arm and urged her to get moving.
Fitz walked alongside her friend past identical houses, watching people slip inside as if afraid they might be seen. From other houses, other women peeked out, women who hadn't been at the Temple. The looks on their faces made it clear that they'd already heard the news of what Tenbrook and his men had done.
Fitz lowered her head, trying to keep from being recognized. She knew that not all the people who lived on the dirty, narrow street were sympathetic to Franklin's revolt. Ginger was right. It didn't take much of an imagination to guess that some people would already be looking for ways to curry favor now that the power structure in Brighton had altered. Bringing Fitz to Tenbrook might earn that favor.
Fitz didn't know if Tenbrook was interested in putting her on a pyre, or if he'd like to take his sword to her throat. She didn't know how much of his brutality in the Temple was perverse bravado, and how much was driven by fear of the residents of Brighton. If it was fear, then Fitz had cause to worry, because that fear might turn to paranoia, and paranoia would bring much more death to Brighton. When that death came, she'd be at the top of Tenbrook's list of people to kill.
They finally stopped at a ramshackle home. Ginger tried the door, found it open, and led Fitz inside.
"This will do for now." Ginger crossed the dark room and found a candle, taking it to a small fireplace and lighting it with the embers still smoldering there. "No one should come here tonight."
Fitz nodded.
Ginger came over to Fitz and wrapped her in a hug. "This is hard on you, I know, honey. But you're strong, stronger than any of us. It'll hurt, but you'll get through."
Fitz nodded again and hugged Ginger tight.
After a moment, Ginger pulled away. "I don't know what tomorrow will bring. You won't be able to stay here long. One of the neighbors will come by in the morning to gossip I imagine. I don't know what will happen then. It's better not to take the risk. You shouldn't stay. I think The House is the best place for you."
"The House of Barren Women?" Fitz asked, stepping back. "Nobody likes me there. Housemother Mary hates me."
"If you look only for hate, you'll see only hate." Ginger put a comforting hand against Fitz's cheek. "You need to see past it."
Fitz shook her head and laughed harshly. "Mary hates me, and it's not because of the way I see her. And I'm sure the other girls feel even worse about me now that I've left."
"It's hard staying human in that house," said Ginger. "It changes you and makes into something stone-hearted and cruel."
"A Housemother," argued Fitz.
"Perhaps," agreed Ginger, "but she isn't all foul inside. She's a mean, sharp-tongued monster, but she was once a girl on her back just as the rest of us were. She has to be hard. I'll talk with her in the morning. I'll make it alright."
"I don't know about this," said Fitz.
"Don't worry about the other girls," said Ginger, "as I said, they don't make friends easily, but believe me, they liked you as much as they liked anyone else. None of them showed it when you were there. That's what The House of Barren women does to a girl. But after you left, things changed. You'd have to listen to them yourself to know how much they all admire you now."
"Envy is probably a better word."
"Both are true," said Ginger. "But believe me when I tell you they are ready to stand behind you. You and Franklin were all we ever talked about when the men and Housemother Mary weren't after us to do our chores."
Fitz looked around the one-room dwelling, taking measure of the place where she'd sleep. "You should go, before the streets get too empty."
"You're right," said Ginger. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
"Okay."
Ginger slipped out the door, closing it behind her. Fitz listened as the door scraped the jamb.
And then she was alone.
Chapter 90: Fitzgerald
After a long night of little sleep, Fitz sat on a few layers of blankets that Ginger's sister's family had once called a bed, in which they'd held each other at night and shared their dreams. And now they were all as dead as Fitz's dreams.
As dead as Franklin.
She knew she couldn't stay. Ginger was right about that. It wouldn't be safe, with people around that might give her up. The house was a temporary fix for a problem she couldn't figure out how to resolve.
Tears came as Fitz thought about Franklin—sad, aching, tiny tears that did little to soothe the hurt.
As she sat there, crying for most of the night, her grief-stricken tears turned into an anger that hungered for revenge.
Tenbrook needed to die.
But what could she do? Tenbrook seemed invincible. She turned those thoughts over several times in her mind, twisting them in new ways, but coming no closer to a conclusion as morning light grew brighter through the gaps in the door's boards.
Fitz listened to the sounds from the street, whispers that grew louder now that the events of the night had passed. She needed to leave the house, but she knew she couldn't be the first woman outside. She'd wait until others found the courage to go about their chores. Then she'd leave and try to blend in.
Ginger had told her to go to The House of Barren Women, but Fitz didn't know if she should. But where else could she go?
She'd thought about it through the night, over and ove
r and over. Mostly, she believed she should try to gather up what provisions she could, find some clothing suitable for the wild, and wait again for dark and a chance to climb the circle wall and put Brighton forever behind her.
Could she be killed by a demon in the forest? Yes, of course. But in her mind, the more she thought about her future in Brighton, the more certain she grew that her early death wouldn't be a matter of chance, but a matter of certainty.
Once over the wall, she didn't know where she'd go. Most of the people from the three townships were still in Brighton. Some had returned to the other towns or villages. She could try to start a life in another town, but a returning villager might think she was a thief coming to steal their things while they were away. Even if she could make it work, the looming image of Tenbrook would live in her mind forever.
How long would it be before her life in Brighton reached out to find her?
Chapter 91: Fitzgerald
Having come through the familiar door and into the front room of The House of Barren Women, Fitz stopped. Everything about the room, the dim light, the feel of the floor under her feet, the bench along the wall on which she'd sat with the other girls, the other merchandise, waiting to be selected and put to use, and the smell of too many bodies doing too many things in too small a space, burrowed tentacles through her mind connecting all of her memories—a few sweet, but most she'd prefer to forget.
"And the high harlot queen of the ashen Temple has fallen," taunted Housemother Mary, coming into the parlor through a side door.
Fitz eyed Ginger, one of the three girls on the bench, those awake early enough to serve a man in need of some morning attention. Ginger said, "Be kind, Mary."
Fitz said nothing. She'd expected Housemother Mary to say something callous, but she was hoping that Mary would see past petty cruelty after what had happened at the Temple. Fitz hoped for a favor.
Mary stepped to the center of the room. "You want to bring General Tenbrook's wrath down on us? Is that why you're here? You don't want to stand on the pyre alone?"
"No," Fitz said. She turned and reached for the door behind her, realizing she'd made a mistake.
"No!" Ginger stood up from her place on the bench.
"Sit back down," Mary spat. "Or you'll be washing sheets and scrubbing floors until your hands are too calloused to please a man."
Hearing the commotion, more girls came into the parlor from a door that led to the dining room and kitchen.
"I'll wash my own sheets," said a tall, dark haired girl named Ashley who'd just come into the room.
Other girls sheepishly offered to do their own housework.
With a face that was reddening with fury, Mary spun on them, baring her teeth. "You barren sluts best get back in the kitchen." She turned away from them, expecting them to comply without resistance. She refocused on Fitz. "Go! We don't want you here. Go sleep in a pigsty. Go climb the wall and feed the demons. Or save everyone the trouble and go stand on a pyre in the square until the wood dries out." She finished with a wave of her fingers as if she was brushing a bug off a loaf of bread.
"Don't go," Ginger told Fitz, crossing the room to take hold of Fitz's arm. Ginger turned on Housemother Mary and looked defiantly at the shorter woman. "Fitz will stay in my room. And you'll not say another word about it." Ginger's words took a menacing edge, and she added, "And you'll not tell Tenbrook's men, either."
Housemother Mary stabbed a bony finger toward Fitz and shouted, "She's a thief. Did you know that? I caught her with Father Winthrop's stolen baubles myself. And when I took her to him, she escaped a burning by bewitching the Bishop and twisting him to her will." Mary scanned the room, looking at each of the other women. "She's doing the same to each of you now. Don't trust her."
Ginger gripped Fitz's arm tighter.
"I should go," said Fitz, worried that no matter what was said here in the parlor, at the first chance, Housemother Mary was not only going to betray Fitz, but every girl in the house. That was clear enough already, and Fitz didn't want to see anymore of her friends killed.
"No," said Ginger.
"You'll stay, Fitz," said Ashley, who turned and whispered something in the ear of the girl just behind her. That girl, a new girl Fitz didn't know, looked back at Ashley, wide-eyed, reluctant. Ashley told her, "Go."
Focusing on Ginger, the source of the defiance, Mary said, "Go up to your room and stay there until you're needed."
Ginger stared at Mary, but didn't answer.
Mary crossed the parlor in a flash, slapping Ginger across the face. "You'll do as your told! Upstairs with you!"
With her cheek stinging and tears in her eyes, Ginger said, "No. Fitz is one of us. You won't turn her out."
"I'll do what I've been charged to do, which is to keep you whores in line," Mary shouted, slapping Ginger again, before turning and pushing Fitz. "Get out of here. I'm not going to the pyre for the likes of you. You're a vile, self-serving witch. You got Franklin killed. You got all the fathers killed. You got the Temple burned for the sake of your heretic ideas and your scheming. I'll see you burn before this day's end. Mark my words. And any of the rest of you whores who want to join her? You go right ahead." Mary turned to look at the others and unexpectedly gasped.
Fitz saw Ashley standing, now facing Mary close, too close.
Ashley's face was expressionless, hard. She stepped back as Mary grasped at her stomach and stumbled forward a few steps. Ashley stepped out of her way, and Fitz saw a dripping red kitchen knife in Ashley's hand.
Everyone in the room stared, shocked. Fitz's eyes widened.
"All of you," Mary gasped, between labored breaths, a red stain spreading down her dress, "all of you will pay." She pointed to a girl on the bench. "Kayla, come help me."
Kayla looked at her feet, frightened. She started to get up.
Ginger said, "Don't."
Kayla froze.
Mary's hateful eyes fell on Ginger, and she turned and raised her hand to slap her again. "You pig bitch."
Ginger grabbed Mary's wrist and stepped over beside Ashley, spinning Mary around to face her. Ginger reached out to take the bloody knife from Ashley and slashed it across Mary's throat.
Blood poured out and Housemother Mary collapsed on the floor, gurgling and struggling for another moment before going still.
They all stared as Mary's blood spread in a puddle on the floor.
Chapter 92: Tenbrook
Tenbrook sat alone on the dais, watching the square, the center of his domain. The Cleansing platform stood empty in the middle, abandoned until the next Cleansing Day when the inspectors would wait as lines and lines of women and children climbed the steps and disrobed, hoping their skin was unblemished by spores and warts.
Well past the Cleansing platform, fifty of the city guard drilled in the falling rain. Around the edges of the square, women, some with children, hurried through, crossing from one side of town to the other, deathly afraid to look in Tenbrook's direction.
On the far side of the square were the remains of the Temple. The stone walls still stood, but the roof had caved in, and its ancient colored glass windows were shattered. Black smoke stains ran up the walls. The smell of burned wood and charred flesh floated in the wet air.
Is this what absolute victory feels like?
Tenbrook hadn't thought winning would be so easy. He didn't think it would happen so quickly. That saddened him. Now, what would he do? No challenge existed.
Sure, Blackthorn might come back with a raggedy army's remnants in tow. But what of it? Blackthorn was a dying man. He'd given up already. He'd present no difficulty.
The clergy was wiped out. Tenbrook smiled as he thought about how brilliantly he'd handled that. He was indeed a master.
What of the Scholars? He'd crushed Evan's insurgency, but the Academy was still intact, probably shivering in their study halls and pissing on their shoes as they thought about what had happened to the clergy. No, the Scholars would present no problems either—not fo
r a long, long time.
That left only demons.
Tenbrook had to wonder, as he looked into his future, how effective Blackthorn's expedition had been at exterminating demons. While he surely had no chance of killing them all, Tenbrook hoped that enough of them were left alive on this part of the great flat earth that they'd mass from time to time to come for the people of Brighton.
Without that one possibility to relieve boredom, the future didn't hold any appeal at all.
Except for one.
Tenbrook's thoughts drifted to women, the only interesting thing of which there seemed to be a ready supply. With most of the men having been dragged on Blackthorn's folly, the women now outnumbered men ten to one. And of that minority of men, most were so old as to be too feeble to march out with the army.
Tenbrook decided to let his imagination run free through his most lurid fantasies. With a practically endless supply of female flesh, the only limit on his pleasure would be the breadth of his imagination. Through the years, he'd imagined so much.
Until he found some other way to alleviate the boredom of the victorious, women would have to suffice.
Chapter 93: Fitzgerald
Mary's body had drained its blood on the floor and now lay bound with rope and wrapped in several layers of blankets in her room upstairs. The floor in the parlor was clean. The front door was barred and barricaded, as was the back. All of the windows on the first floor were shuttered. For men coming to find some entertainment at The House of Barren Women, there'd be no shooing them away, no explanation. The House would be closed up.
Fitz's bet was that none of the few men left in town would have the nerve to take the matter to Tenbrook, the only authority in Brighton at the moment. After his volatile performance at the Temple, no one, probably not even the city guard or cavalrymen, would want to be at the center of his attention.
Now Fitz was standing in Mary's upstairs room, the largest room in the house after the parlor and the dining hall. All eighteen of Fitz's conspirators who'd been meeting with her in the Temple, the strong women, along with the women in The House, were in Mary's room staring at Fitz. Franklin's death hadn't changed the view of the eighteen women that she was the leader. And the Barren Women had joined them.