The Weight of Ghosts | Wynne
Things start to go badly for Wynne, her father, and the family bakery when a Rakkian thug demands protection money.
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This is the first character backstory in the Flotsam & Jetsam collection. All of them are standalone reads, so there is no need to go in order of publication. If you haven’t yet, make sure to read the Introduction. That gives you a brief bit about each of the characters in the Talon, including Wynne. Happy reading and, if you haven't yet, put your email in below so you get Blackspire in your inbox.
The watch bell tolled, echoing across the harbor.
Wynne hurried along the street. “Papa’ll be worried,” she muttered, tightening her grip on the gunny sack slung over her shoulder. The faster pace set it swinging, smacking her in the back with every other step.
The watch bell at midday could only mean a ship had been spotted. It was most likely a trader, but there was always the chance of brigands. Pirates were fond of the waters between Praxxis and Northwarden. Praxxis’ navy was nothing to speak of, and there had been no warships patrolling the northern waters since House Toth was destroyed. A shiver ran down her spine.
She paused at the top of the hill to push a sweat-slick curl out of her eyes. Below, Ostra’s harbor glittered blue-green under the summer sun. A handful of ships sat at anchor, mostly fishing scows, but she saw Rom’s colors, as well as a couple of Sütian galleys. Beyond the harbor, the sea darkened from green to deep blue.
“Silly girl,” she chided herself. “Stop your woolgathering.” Shaking her head at her distraction, Wynne resettled the sack and hurried down the hill. Town was busy, or as busy as it got these days. Wynne could just remember when merchants would put in on their way to Northwarden. The crews would spend all day in town, drinking and relaxing, while the merchants offloaded what wasn’t already bought and paid for elsewhere. She had loved to sit and listen to the sailors gamble and joke, their accents weaving a multicolored map in her imagination. She’d daydreamed about those far-off lands, mysterious Ashawa and Bateuse, regal Rakka, and semi-mythical Lastland, beyond which no one who had ever sailed had returned.
Those were the days, she thought to herself. These days, her father could count on selling bread to the locals and maybe a handful of country folk who made their way into Ostra for whatever reason. It made her a little sad to think that the city’s best days might be behind her and those merchants might never return.
Today, Ostra was crowded. It was a market day, and farmers, shepherds, weavers, and others from the outlying communities brought their wares to the town’s central marketplace. That meant many more people than usual on the streets and hopefully more people in her father’s bakery. Wynne wove in and out, dodging a man carrying a bundle of willow staves on his back, sidestepping a tanner whose cart was loaded down with finished hides, and narrowly avoiding getting trampled by a herd of goats that had gotten away from their herder and were now frolicking down the street and causing general mayhem.
“Bloody beasts!” a man shouted as a couple of goats leaped into the back of his cart, getting mud and hay all over the clothing he was taking to market. Wynne stifled a laugh and turned down a narrow side street. The goats would snarl traffic, and she really had to get to the bakery. From the side street, she turned down an alley, then crossed another road, before her path dead-ended into the Sea Wall Road. Three doors down on the right, and she was home. Well, her second home. Fullman’s Bakery was her father’s most beloved child, and Wynne had probably spent more time under its leaking tile roof than in the home she shared with him.
“I’m here!” she called, pushing open the door with one hand. The smell of baking bread hit her full in the face, and her stomach grumbled. Belatedly, she realized that she had forgotten to eat her breakfast before dashing off to get the things her father needed from Beryl’s dairy farm. Two rounds of smoked yellow cheese and a full wedge of the sharpest white in all of Praxxis.
“Papa, I’ve got the cheese! Are you going to put the white in those scones you were talking about? With black pepper?” She dropped the bag on a flour-covered table. “Papa?” she called again. Raised voices from the stockroom caught her attention.
“Papa, are you in here arguing with yourself again?” she asked, laughing, and opened the stockroom door without pausing. The scene inside stopped her cold. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”
Her father stood between three other men, face red, shirt covered in flour, and drenched in sweat. At first, she assumed that he was arguing with a customer. It wouldn’t be the first time that Bert Fullman had accidentally shorted an order. Then she noticed the purpling around his left eye and a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.
“Go on with ya,” he said. “Won’t be a minute. Just hammerin’ out the details of a last-minute order.”
One of the other men interrupted. “Wynne, isn’t it?”
Rakishly handsome, just a few years older than her, and carrying a single-handed crossbow, she recognized him. His name was Jaten, and he had arrived not three months before on a ship from Rakka. Rumor was that he had been a member of the Faceless, and he ruthlessly used that to his advantage. Just a few days ago, she’d heard that they’d fished the body of old Fletcher Handy out of the harbor, the erstwhile leader of those in Osta who followed the Crooked Path. The fact that he knew her name sent a chill down her spine.
She opened her mouth to reply, but her father interrupted. “Don’t you worry about any of this, girl. You just go get started on the scones, right? I’ll be out to help you shortly.”
She looked from Jaten to her father and back again. Her mind raced. She could find a way to attack the men and free her father. She could grab her Papa and somehow lock the three men in the storeroom while they made their escape. None of those would work, she knew. Ultimately, there was no choice but to do as her father asked. Wynne backed out of the room and shut the door behind her. Worried, she leaned against the doorframe, listening to the muffled voices from inside.
Someone laughed; she assumed it was Jaten. “She’s a likely looking girl,” he said, his accent confirming his identity. “She might bear more attention moving forward.”
“You leave my daughter out of this,” she heard her father say.
“You have enough problems without worrying about her, old man,” someone else growled. That was followed by a muted, meaty thud. Wynne bit her lip to keep from crying out as her father groaned.
“Now, I explained the new situation clearly to you just a couple of days ago,” Jaten continued. Another thud followed, and her father groaned again. “But now you tell me that you can’t meet your obligation.” There was a dragging sound, then a fleshy thud, and Bert Fullman whimpered in pain. Tears burned Wynne’s eyes, and rage clawed at the back of her throat. “I can’t afford to let defiance like that stand. I’m sure you understand. It’s just business, Bert.” Wynne heard a blow, followed by a crunch, and her father screamed.
It was too much for her to bear. Tears streaming down her cheeks, Wynne ran out of the bakery. She pelted down the street with one goal in mind: the guardhouse on Slattery Row, hard against the harbor wall. The sun was high and the weather was hot. By the time Wynne reached the guardhouse, sweat poured from her body, and she gasped for breath.
“Whoa there, Wynne!” Artur Southfield said, catching her as she burst through the door and almost fell to the floor.
“Help!” she managed to gasp. “My father, they’re hurting him!”
That was enough to get Artur moving. Their fathers had been friends since childhood, and Artur and Wynne had grown up as close as siblings. “Where?” was all he asked.
“The bakery,” she said, finally managing to get enough air into her lungs that it didn’t feel like her head was going to explode. “It’s Jaten and his boys.”
Artur glared. “Right then.” He grabbed a spear from the wall rack and poked his head out the door. “William!” he bellowed. “William, hurry up!” Footsteps pounded around the side of the guardhouse and William appeared, hair tousled and sleep in his eyes.
“Quick, boy, arm yourself. Wynne’s Da needs our help,” Artur ordered. William wasted no time in grabbing a spear himself. By that point, Wynne had recovered enough to go with them. The three retraced her steps to the bakery. Arriving, they found the front door standing wide open.
“Did I leave it open?” Wynne wondered aloud, but could not remember.
“Best to stay out here. Let us handle this,” Artur said, stepping through the doorway and gesturing for William to follow.
“The hells I will,” Wynne muttered to herself. She stepped inside and quickly grabbed a rolling pin from the counter, then followed the two guardsmen. “They were in here,” she said, gesturing to the closed storeroom door.
Artur nodded, then kicked the storeroom door open. “City Watch!” he yelled before advancing into the storeroom, spear at the ready. William followed him in, a little less enthusiastically. Almost immediately, Wynne heard Artur say, “Gods, Bert, what did they do to you?” Then, “Help me get him out of here.” There came the sounds of exertion, and then Artur and William were carrying her father out of the room. Blood ran freely from his nose, and his right arm dangled at an unnatural angle.
“Mali!” Wynne gasped, invoking the goddess of the sea. “Papa, what happened?” Not waiting, she swept a table clear of pans, bowls, and trays. “Put him here,” she said.
Artur and William did as she ordered, depositing the semi-conscious Bert on the table. Wynne wiped tears from her eyes and quickly assessed him. His skin was pale, but the blood running from his nose seemed to have stopped. She looked at his arm and felt her stomach lurch. The bones in his forearm, jaggedly broken, thrust out from a gaping hole in the flesh.
“Oh, gods,” William gasped, then turned and ran out the door. The sounds of him being noisily sick drifted back inside.
“Please, fetch the healer,” she begged Artur, unwilling to leave her father’s side. The guard nodded and left immediately.
“Wynne,” her father gasped, his head lolling from side to side.
“Shush now, Papa,” she whispered, wiping drying blood from his face. His eyes rolled wildly.
He tried to move, perhaps to sit up, but Wynne pulled him back to the tabletop. “No, you need to stay still. Artur’s gone for Heddy. She’ll put you right in no time.” She forced herself to smile through her tears.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he wheezed. “Just like your mother.”
That brought a genuine smile to Wynne’s lips. Bert did not talk about Martha often, and Cole even less, even though it had been almost five years since the fever had taken her mother and brother.
“You always said I have an honest face,” she laughed. “Just like her.”
Artur returned with Heddy in surprisingly little time. The healer puffed into the bakery carrying a bag of supplies, ample cheeks red with exertion and the summer’s heat. “Well, Bert, it sounds like you’re hard over,” she said. “Let’s take a look and see what can be done.” She set about examining Bert with professional detachment, but Wynne saw her face pale at the severity of the wound.
Heddy rummaged in her bag, pulling out wood slats to use as splints, linen bandages, and a jar of salve. “Wynne, be a dear and give me a hand,” she ordered. To Bert, she said, “I won’t lie to you, Bert. This is going to hurt quite a lot.” She put a stick between his teeth. “Bite down on this when the pain gets bad.” Bert nodded, teeth already clamped on the wood, eyes closed tight. Heddy took a deep breath. “I’m going to set the bones. I need you to hold him down,” she said to Wynne. Wynne nodded her understanding and took a steadying breath. “You hear that, Da? You hold still,” she told Bert before putting her weight on his shoulder. She nodded to Heddy.
The healer took another deep breath and then set to work. Setting the jagged ends of the bones together was delicate work. Bert jerked at her touch but then steadied as Wynne put more force on his body. He groaned loudly around the stick in his mouth. Heddy worked as quickly as possible, slipping the fractured bones back together within Bert’s mangled arm. He jerked and groaned again as she poured whiskey over the wound.
“Almost done, keep him still,” she warned, before packing the wound with herbs, and setting a splint under his arm and another on top. She proceeded to wrap everything in linen. “Done,” she proclaimed.
Heddy spent another few minutes examining Bert’s nose and various bruises before pronouncing him as fit as she could make him. “He can’t use that arm,” she warned, packing supplies back into her bag. “It will be months before he can even start to use it again.” She thought for a moment. “I’ll be by in two days to change the dressing. Keep a close eye on him. He’ll probably get feverish.” She fished a bundle of dried feverfew from her bag and handed it to Wynne. “When his fever starts, make a tea with a few pinches. Fetch me if it gets unmanageable.” She held Wynne’s hand for a moment. “I’m sorry I can’t stay longer, but the Withorns have the pox, and Alaina is off to Blackspire for a mage conclave, so it’s just my humble physic skills between everyone.” With that, she bustled out of the bakery.
William helped Bert off the table and then half-carried him up the stairs, where there was a makeshift bedroom for nights when Bert, Wynne, or both were too tired to make the trek across town. It would serve them well now, Wynne thought.
“Here, let me give you a hand tidying,” Artur said. True to his word, the guardsman helped Wynne put the bakery to rights, stacking fallen flour casks and setting knives, pans, and other implements back in their place. William joined them a quarter hour later. “He’s resting now,” he said, setting a rolling pin back on the table.
Artur looked around and must have judged the job done enough. “We’ll leave you know, Wynne, but if those bastards come back…”
“You’ll be the first to know,” she promised.
Artur shook his head. “First, send word to the guardhouse, and one ‘o them will come. Then you come and get me. I’ll be at home if all the gods are willing.” Satisfied that his job was done, he gestured to the door. “C’mon, William, let’s get back to the guardhouse. Savit and Prem should be along shortly to relieve us.” The two guards tromped out, leaving Wynne with an empty shop and an equally empty feeling inside. Her father calling her name brought her back to reality.
“Coming!” she called and climbed the stairs.
The crash of breaking glass brought Wynne awake hours later. Gratefully, she saw the noise had not disturbed her father, who was exhausted from his ordeal. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she lit a candle and stumbled downstairs. There, she found the front window shattered. A large rock lay on the floor before the window, surrounded by shards of glass, a scrap of parchment tied around it with twine. She fumbled with the knots but finally got them.
The note was simple: We’ll be back in a fortnight for what’s ours, or you’ll lose what’s yours. Her heart sank. There was no mistaking the message or its intent. They had a fortnight to come up with the money Jaten demanded or else. She shut her eyes tight, and a sob escaped her throat before she calmed herself. Wynne wiped away a tear and glanced around. It must be somewhere around five hours before dawn.
“Time to get to work, I suppose,” she said to herself. Her father’s badly broken arm meant he would be unable to handle his regular duties. Those now fell to Wynne. With the added onus of the protection money due to Jaten, she would have to sell as much as possible. Sighing, she stood and began loading wood into the oven. Never let it be said that Wynne Fullman was one to back down from a challenge.
The first few days were the worst. Wynne had always helped around the bakery, but her father was the real force behind things. With him incapacitated, Wynne was forced to expand her skill set. Thankfully, Bert felt well enough after the first day to sit in the kitchen for hours at a time, directing Wynne’s efforts, giving feedback, and, more than anything, encouraging her.
“By the gods,” he said one day. “It might be time for me to hang up my apron!”
Wynne laughed, but it felt hollow. A glance at the books told her everything she needed to know. She put her head in her dough-crusted hands. The customers loved their loaves and rolls and pastries, but there just weren’t enough sales. She would need a miracle if they were going to be able to pay Jaten, much less have enough left over to keep the doors open. That was to be the way of things. Wynne got up hours before dawn and worked until well after the sun had set. Bert’s improvement was slow, but his stamina increased. He was eventually able to help with small chores around the bakery, like loading wood into the oven and handling smaller customer purchases. It was not enough.
Sundown on the day before their deadline found Wynne working furiously.
“Ease up on yourself, hon,” Bert told her. He had just helped Ada Selton load up her order and was recovering his strength. Sweet beaded on his brow and he sucked in lungfuls of air like he’d just run back from the harbor.
“I can’t, Papa,” she replied, not looking up from the dough on the table. “Jaten comes tomorrow, and we’re still short.”
“We’ll find some way to convince him to let it ride,” he said unconvincingly. Recovering himself somewhat, he lit a lantern against the encroaching dark.
“I’m not willing to bet the bakery on a maybe. Are you?”
Bert made a noncommittal noise. “Maybe it’s time to think about looking elsewhere anyway,” he said, setting the lantern on a nearby table.
Now, Wynne did stop. She pushed a tangle of curls out of her eyes and stared hard at her father. “That’s your wound talking, Papa. I’m not about to walk away from what you’ve built here just because some jumped-up street tough gives us a little trouble.”
Bert smiled at her fire. “Maybe you’re right. Still, Praxxis isn’t what it once was. Without the Toths in Northwarden, there’s little here. Folks are moving on, hon. The Tanners left for Süt last fall. The Holmens are shipping out in a few weeks. Even Ada Selton was talking just today about casting her nets somewhere else.”
“Where would we even go? This is all we have, all I’ve known. Do you really want to weigh anchor and just… leave?”
Her father sighed and sagged in on himself. “Of course not. Praxxis is our home. But sometimes you have to do things you’d rather not because doing nothing is worse.”
Wynne said nothing for a moment. “Maybe you’re right,” she admitted. “Praxxis has seen better days, that’s for sure. But I can’t just give up on something I love,” she said, eyes fierce.
That brought a smile to Bert’s face. “There’s that fire. We’ll decide what to do tomorrow.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, hon. It’s just… everything. It’s making me maudlin.”
Wynne smiled in encouragement. “It’ll get better, Papa. It always does.”
Bert nodded, then leaned back against the wall and was soon asleep. Wynne let him be. Rest was the best thing for him, according to Heddy. She looked at the list of orders. There was a lot of work left to do. While it might not get them the money they needed, she had to hope that Jaten would be happier with some money than no money. She gave herself over to the routine of working the dough. It would need to rest overnight before she could start baking tomorrow’s orders.
The bell over the door rang.
“We’re closed for the day,” Wynne called out without looking up.
“Not for me, you’re not,” a man’s voice replied. An icy spike of fear stabbed into Wynne’s heart. No, she thought. He’s a full day early.
“I need to be able to check up on my investments whenever I want.”
Wynne whirled, sending a cloud of flour into the air. Jaten stood there, sneer on his face, hand on the butt of his crossbow nestled next to a bronze dagger. Not for the first time, she wondered how a small-time thief like Jaten could afford steel.
“Like what you see?” Jaten asked, noticing her interest. He pulled the crossbow, hefting it. “Got this in Rakka off a lordling who thought he could tell me no.”
“Imagine, the nerve,” Bert chimed in sarcastically. Wynne saw that while he was pale, he was awake and alert.
“Just so!” Jaten agreed with a laugh. He walked over to Bert. “The bill comes due tomorrow. You’ll have my money, right?”
“About that…” Bert began, but Jaten cut him off.
“That doesn’t sound very promising. And here I thought I was dealing with a committed business owner interested in protecting what he’d built.”
“We only need protection from you!” Wynne raged, hands curled into impotent fists.
“We’re not going to have enough,” Bert admitted, calling Jaten’s attention back to himself. “But we’ll have most of it. And we can get you the rest within another week or so. That sounds reasonable, right?”
“Now, Bert, do you make a habit of going back on business agreements?” Jaten asked, a disarming smile on his lips.
“We do things a little more informal around here than what you’re probably used to in Rakka,” Bert said. “If one of my customers can’t pay, I know they’ll get it back to me eventually. If a supplier can’t make a delivery, we find ways to work around the problem.”
“See, that’s the issue,” Jaten said. “Unprofessional. Slapdash. Haphazard. How can you run a profitable business if no one’s ever held to account?” He glared at Bert and poked a finger into his chest. “I will hold you to account, old man.”
“Get away from him!” Wynne yelled, searching for something to use as a weapon, a way to defend her father.
Jaten laughed. “Or you’ll what?” Then a thought struck him, and he turned back to Bert, a warm smile on his face. “I might be tempted to take partial payment of what you owe if you throw in a little something to sweeten the pot.” He glanced meaningfully toward Wynne.
“My daughter’s not part of the deal,” Bert growled.
“I’d sooner die,” Wynne confirmed.
“That can be arranged.” Jaten’s smile was still in place, but the warmth had turned cold and cruel. Wynne realized that he’d just as soon kill her as bed her and would probably still count it a good time. She shuddered.
“Get out of my bakery!” Bert yelled, forcing himself up. “Leave my daughter alone!” Weakly, he pushed at Jaten with his one good arm.
Jaten pushed him back toward the wall, then blandly slapped him across the face, hard. “You’ll do well to remember who’s who in this relationship, Bert. You don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I tell you!” He drew back again, hand curled into a fist, then brought it crashing down on the older man’s broken arm. Bert screamed in agony and clutched his arm to his chest before falling to the floor. Jaten stood over the fallen man, laughing. “I have to admit, you’re more amusing than I thought you’d be.” He kicked Bert in the head, and the older man flopped to the floor, unconscious.
“Get away from him!” Wynne cried. Her questing hand found the hilt of a bread knife, its serrated blade glinting in the light of the oven’s fire.
“Oh ho!” Jaten moved away from Bert, his hand drifting toward the crossbow. “You think you can get to me with that before I put a bolt through your chest, girl?”
Wynne said nothing but tightened her grip on the knife. Jaten was a good twenty feet from her, and she had no doubt that he could load, aim, and loose the crossbow long before she could get close enough to cut him, but she couldn’t just stand there and let him abuse her father, either. Hefting the knife, she started toward him.
“I see that the lack of common sense runs in the family,” Jaten muttered, pulling his crossbow and loading a bolt before aiming it at Wynne.
Wynne ducked behind a flour barrel just as the string twanged, the bolt thudding into the wooden slats. Realizing she had just a moment, Wynne rolled out from behind her cover and dashed toward Jaten, only to dive to the side at the last moment. The bowstring sang again, and another bolt hurtled forward, this one burying itself in a support beam.
“Stand still, damn your eyes,” Jaten cursed.
“What, so you can skewer me more easily?” Wynne asked. Then she was on the move again, zigzagging her way across the bakery floor, keeping as many obstacles between her and Jaten as possible. Another bolt thudded into the floor, mere inches from Wynne’s foot; she pivoted the other way.
Her last move brought her within striking distance. Jaten was focused on reloading his crossbow and barely registered her attack. Her first blow cut into his right arm, severing muscle and tendon. The crossbow fell from suddenly useless fingers. Jaten howled in rage and pain. He punched with his left fist, but Wynne was already moving, easily dodging the blow. She launched another that caught him in the shoulder, the serrated blade cutting easily through his linen tunic and into the flesh beneath. Jaten roared, more in anger and disbelief than anything else. Belatedly realizing his mistake, he reached for the dagger at his belt, just managing to free the blade and block Wynne’s attack.
“You’re going to pay for that,” he growled. He glanced to his right, eyes lighting up as he saw the lantern. He lunged toward Wynne, dagger extended. She danced backward, out of the way, but that provided Jaten with the opening he wanted. He grabbed the lantern and smashed it on the floor between him and Bert. Oil splashed across the floor and onto Wynne’s father. The wick flickered, then steadied. Within a few breaths, the oil on the floor was alight.
“I promised you, didn’t I? You didn’t pay, now you’ll lose what’s yours,” Jaten said with a sneer.
“Papa!” Urgency edged Wynne’s voice. The flames were dangerously close to Bert now, but he was unaware of the danger. “Papa, wake up! Fire!”
“Come on, girlie,” Jaten gestured with his dagger blade. “Try to save your father. All you have to do is get past me.”
The image of her father’s body wrapped in flame blazed itself into Wynne’s mind and catalyzed her response. With a scream of rage and fear, she launched herself at Jaten, heedless of the danger. The move took the man by surprise. He’d expected something more measured, maybe even pleading, but not this she-demon wielding a blood-stained blade. He barely got his dagger up in time to block her first attack. He was marginally faster to block the second but failed to even notice the third, which was his undoing. Wynne brought her knife around in a two-handed sweep across Jaten’s throat. Blood fountained across the bakery floor, and Wynne, before Jaten fell to the floor.
Wynne ignored the dying man, intent on reaching her father before the flames did. She pushed past Jaten to be confronted by a wall of fire. It blazed across the floor, licked up the walls, and even caught the ceiling beams. A roaring sound was building, throbbing in her ears. Somewhere, a bell was tolling frantically.
“Papa!” she screamed. There was no response. She tried to push through the flames, but they were too hot. “No, I won’t let you die,” she sobbed and prepared to leap through despite the intense heat. Then, strong arms were pulling her back. She fought against them, thrashing and screaming. “Let me go! He’ll die! Let me go!” The arms didn’t relent. Then the world spun around her, and everything went black.
Wynne slowly became aware of cooler air. Something crackled nearby, and voices were shouting. Where was she? What was happening? She opened her eyes, and the sight of the bakery engulfed in flames brought it all back to her. She struggled up to her knees. “Papa?” she asked, not expecting an answer.
“We couldn’t save him,” a man’s voice said from beside her. “I’m sorry, Wynne.” It was Artur, streaked with soot and singed from head to foot. William stood nearby in little better condition. A bucket line had been formed and Ostrians of all ages and from all stations bravely fought to keep the flames from spreading beyond the bakery.
“We did manage to pull this git out,” Artur said, kicking a form lying on the ground beside him. Wynne tried to focus, then caught her breath. It was Jaten. He lay on the cobbles, blood pooling around his head. His hands were empty, and there was no sign of his dagger, but his crossbow was caught on his foot.
“Is he still alive?” Wynne asked in disbelief.
“Only just,” Artur said. “We’ve sent for Heddy, but at this time of night, she’s probably at home. It’ll be a while before she can get here.”
Wynne found the strength to stand. She walked to Jaten and clumsily pulled the crossbow off his foot, then fished in his quiver to find a bolt. She knocked the bolt, drew the string back, and locked it into the trigger mechanism. Then she pointed it at the prone man. “Tell Heddy not to bother,” she said, pulling the trigger. The bolt hit home, quivering in Jaten’s chest. His shallow breathing slowed, then stopped.
“Fair enough,” Artur said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I think the bakery’s a total loss. With your papa gone… What are you going to do, Wynne?”
Wynne said nothing. She’d never thought about it before. Her father and the bakery had been everything, her entire world, especially since the loss of her mother and brother. “I…” she started, then trailed off.
“You’re welcome to stay with Gerry’n me,” Artur threw out hesitantly. “You know our place. It ain’t big, but there’s space in the attic I could turn into a bedroom for you. If you want.”
Wynne looked back at the burning bakery, and the weight of the place suddenly settled on her heart. “Thank you, Artur. But I don’t think I can stay.”
“With us?”
Wynne shook her head. “On Praxxis. There’s too many ghosts here now.”
She bent and removed the quiver from Jaten’s belt, then threaded it onto her own. Then, still carrying the crossbow, she set off for the harbor. Somewhere, she knew, there were blue skies and a life that could, if not make her forget, then at least ease the weight she bore.
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