Rest
Berend has, indeed, noted that Herard Belisia only wanted to do right by the girl his brother murdered after being cut off from his inheritance, but he can’t fault the man. He is, after all, a mercenary. By definition, his loyalty can be bought. Herard is buying it with promises, at the moment, and Berend’s conscience is heavy enough that he doesn’t need more.
He can’t do anything for Bessa Kyne’s soul now. Not until Warder wakes up—and he will, Berend just has to believe it. His collection of incomplete, nonsensical, water-damaged notes crinkle and crunch under his arm.
He’s headed for the city center, and the Lady Breckenridge’s apartments. Dressed in borrowed clothes from the hospital, he’s inconspicuous, but he looks over his shoulder every few paces, just to make sure. His ribs ache with every breath, and his steps are short, but he can walk. It’s midday, and the sun is warm and the wind is cool, and the first yellowed leaves drift down from overhead and skitter across the pavement.
It’s a beautiful day, and he’s alive, after a second brush with death. He didn’t even lose an eye this time.
Lady Breckenridge greets him with an open-mouth stare. He must look worse than he feels. She collects herself, years of finishing school and generations of genteel breeding reasserting their presence, and ushers him inside.
He struggles up the stairs, but the lady’s feather bed is more than enough reward for his efforts. It envelops him like the arms of a lover, and he’s asleep again in minutes. The short walk from the university was harder than he thought.
He wakes up some hours later. Lady Breckenridge and her maid have checked his bandages, taken away his dirty clothes, and placed Warder’s notes in a neat pile on the bedside table, beside a small covered dish that smells like fresh bread and a pot of tea inside a quilted warmer. His weapons are propped against the ornate wooden chair facing the bed, and his coin pouch sits, undisturbed, beside a selection of clean clothes.The coverlet is pulled up over his shoulders, and the curtains are drawn. A golden beam of afternoon sun crosses the bed, illuminating its green brocade like a forest in spring. Berend could easily get used to this.
He puts his elbows underneath his bandaged ribs and struggles his way out of the enveloping down and onto the pile of pillows behind him. The effort hurts his chest, but it doesn’t make the room spin. He must be getting better. He’s also suddenly ravenous.
Three cups of tea and all of the available bread—crusty and thick, and eaten awkwardly over the plate so as not to get crumbs in the sheets, a cardinal sin in Lady Breckenridge’s view—later, Berend feels like he can think. He may have escaped death once more (and he won’t bet on being granted a third chance), but he’s older now than he was the first time. His spirit might be willing to pursue Hybrook Belisia, but his flesh, bruised and frostbitten, will take time to recover. He also needs to worry about unfriendly members of the Belisia house finding him here. Lady Breckenridge’s good name will protect her from any overt action, but a name isn’t armor. It isn’t a sword. It isn’t even as good as secrecy.
Berend takes an exploratory breath. He can reach the limit of his bandages without sending stabbing pains through his chest, but fighting like this is out of the question. Even eating has drained his strength. He could lie back down again, sleep for a little longer, but the specter of wasted time looms large.
At least Arden Geray is dead, he tells himself for what might be the hundredth time. He’s avenged Mikhail. It almost certainly hasn’t corrected what went wrong with Mikhail’s spirit, but at least when Berend figures that out, there won’t be anything unfinished keeping his former comrade tied to the earth.
He should find Isabel again, he decides, and make sure that everything in her particular area of expertise is stable for the moment. He could send her Warder’s notes. It’s likely that no one alive can make any sense of them except Warder himself, but Isabel has a better chance than Berend does.
With a silent promise to himself that he will return, Berend rolls out of bed. The clothes laid out for him consist of a clean shirt and loose-fitting trousers, both in soft gray and pressed to military precision. A pair of felted slippers he hasn’t seen before are tucked underneath. Some of the clothes Lady Breckenridge lends him have to have been her late husband’s, he’s sure, but he has never asked. He’s happier not knowing.
Dressing is a complicated affair, as he is unable to bend at the waist or use the full range of his elbows, but he accomplishes that and heads out into the hallway. The air is cooler here, away from the sunny windows. The hairs on his arms stand on end.
Lady Breckenridge is out, and her maid is in the garden, watering the exotic purple daisies. They bloomed early this year—usually they’re the last colorful thing left as the garden sheds its finery for winter.
Berend takes a single sheet of writing paper and a pen from the study, touching nothing else. He only made that mistake once. On second thought, he finds the blotting paper and takes only one of those, as well.
He sets up in the parlor. Everything that had been moved for Warder’s presentation is now back in its place, as though it had never happened. Even though he knows it’s there, he can’t find the gap between boards where a hidden spy could look in on the proceedings. No one else is here, but he sits where he can see both the door and the general direction of the peephole, and far enough away that an observer can’t read his letter.
Sentinel, he writes at the top of the page. Maybe it’s too formal, after nearly dying alongside her. Maybe it’s not formal enough. In any case, he’s not going to waste any paper, so he continues.
The West Gate sheriff told me you were still alive. I figured what happened in that house wasn’t enough to put you down. I hope you’re well enough.
Our mutual acquaintance from the university is also still alive, but he won’t be in any shape to talk about his latest research anytime soon. Gods willing, he’ll recover from his misadventure quickly, and we can both discuss it with him.
It’s vague enough, Berend hopes, that should the letter be intercepted and seen by unfriendly eyes, it won’t cause him any more trouble.
In the meantime, as long as we have no more restless ghosts or walking corpses to contend with, I have some other business to attend to in the city. I’ll contact you when it’s finished. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell everyone that I’m still here.
He taps the pen on the blotting paper, leaving a row of tiny ink drops. The door opens, but it’s only the maid, placing her watering can on its shelf and locking up. Berend tries to remember her name. Ella, maybe, or Emma. Her predecessor was Susanna, and she had gotten married a year or more ago, and moved to the countryside. Berend isn’t around enough to get to know Lady Breckenridge’s staff, but he feels a bit guilty not to know their names.
He sees the ghost of Bessa Kyne, running from the barn with her hair undone and her dress wrinkled, and feels a ghostly hand around his throat. He swallows and tugs at the collar of his borrowed shirt. It’s only a memory.
The Belisias will have moved back in to the estate by now, or they will shortly. Berend finds himself hoping that the rot and decay brought about by the haunting is permanent, and the house will have to be knocked down—or, better, burned. If nothing else, they’ll have cleaned up any remaining evidence.
I should have turned down the job. I didn’t need the money that badly.
Herard would have just hired someone else, or sent Warder in alone. At best, nothing would have changed. At worst, Warder might have died in the haunting, and Berend still wouldn’t know what his device did to Mikhail.
What’s done is done. There’s only the question of what to do now.
The letter feels incomplete. He won’t sign it, that’s an unnecessary risk, but after everything that’s happened, shouldn’t he say something that isn’t just a safely undetailed account of his current circumstances?
He holds the pen above the bottom of his letter long enough for a fat drop of ink to fall from its point and splash onto the page. He wipes it away, but it leaves a gray ring under his last line of text.
Glad you’re all right, he scrawls next to it. I’ll see you again soon.
It’s a terrible conclusion, and he hates it even as he’s writing it, but he won’t waste any more of Lady Breckenridge’s paper and ink. He shakes the paper dry and folds it into quarters.
Berend places the pen and ink back in the study and fishes two coins out of the pile of his belongings in the bedroom. He finds the maid—Ella or Emma—sweeping the kitchen. Her woolen coat hangs over the back of a chair.
“Are you on your way out?” he asks.
She brushes a small pile of crumbs and flour into a dustpan. “Almost, sir. Do you need something?”
“Would you find a runner for this letter on your way out?” He holds out the folded paper. “It needs to go to the chapel on the blue field.”
She holds out a hand, and he places the letter and both coins in it. “One for you, and one for the messenger,” Berend explains.
“Of course, Mr. Horst. Thank you.” She puts up the broom and places the letter in one pocket of her coat and the coins in another. She’s younger than Berend thought—maybe fifteen, her face round and pink as an apple and her dark eyes huge. Her coat swallows her up, the sleeves covering both her small hands.
“Is there anything else?” she asks. “I should be going. The little ones need their supper, and my mother won’t be home until late.”
Berend shakes his head. “I won’t keep you. Thank you for your help.”
She gives a curtsy, which only makes the coat seem bigger, and turns for the stairs.
“What’s your name?” Berend calls after her.
She stops at the door, the heavy iron key protruding from the end of her sleeve. “Essie Medberg,” she says, without turning around.
“Be safe, Essie,” Berend says.
Essie curtsies again, and slips out the door and shuts it almost noiselessly behind her. The lock turns, and she’s gone, into the arms of the city. It’s still light, Berend tells himself. She’ll be fine.
At least she doesn’t have to worry about the Belisias.
He drags himself back to bed and sleeps until morning. Late morning, by the looks of it. He wishes he had been awake to see his magnanimous host, but Lady Breckenridge is already out.
Essie Medberg is there, however, trimming flowers for the vases in the parlor. Her brows knit together in concentration as she cuts each stem at an angle.
She looks up with a startled gasp as Berend comes in. He holds up his hands, showing they’re empty.
“Sorry, sir, I didn’t see you there,” she says.
Berend stays in the doorway. “The fault is mine. Would you happen to have more of that delicious bread?”
“Of course, sir.” She places the stems inside the glass neck of the vase. When she releases the flowers, they spread out into almost a perfect sphere.
Reaching into her apron pocket, Essie holds out a familiar folded paper. “I’m sorry, sir, I couldn’t deliver your message. The constables have closed off the chapel and won’t let anybody near.”
Berend blinks at her, his still-exhausted mind struggling to catch up. He enters the room and takes the letter. “What?” he manages to ask. “Why?”
“They wouldn’t say,” says Essie. “They only said the priest has been arrested, and the Sentinel is missing. But I didn’t read your letter, sir. I kept it just like you gave it to me.”
This chapter’s working title was “Berend Finally Has a Good Day.” As always, thank you for being here.
Space Whales Press 
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