The patron thief of brea.., p.23
The Patron Thief of Bread, page 23
Me, I prefer to conserve my words. I must be ready to protect. As soon as they wipe the last of the dust from our stones and hinge open the doors, I must be ready to—
Not just another spring, after all.
I do not know what flowers are growing in the fields. I do not know what villagers are dancing in the grass. The sky may be blue, bluer than it has been in all my fifty years, but I do not notice it. Not today.
The gargoyles on the other side of the roof are as silent as I am, all our stone ears straining to hear what the cardinals are saying below.
“What did they say?” Goathead says. “What’s going on?”
“Quiet!” I bark. But then I hear, and hope flickers within me and dies like a late star.
“I can’t understand them,” Harpy whines. “What is it?”
“The money,” I say, teeth in my throat. “The money is gone.”
I do not hear every detail, but I hear enough.
“The relic,” I tell the other gargoyles. “They are talking about the relic.”
“What’s a relic?” wonders Goathead, and I scoff at his ignorance. I suppose relics have never come up in all their gossiping.
“A relic,” I say, “is something sacred. Something from the Bible, or a prop that once belonged to a prophet. Or the body part of a saint. Something that takes a holy story and makes it real.” And ours was a relic that brought in plenty of coin for our cathedral’s funds: the Cross of Saint Odile.
It was said to be the crucifix of the rosary she prayed with for two weeks straight, night and day, until she collapsed in the Sarluire in the distant hills. It was said that the water carried her to Odierne, and the rosary kept her buoyed, kept her from drowning. It was said that the crucifix contained a sliver from the Holy Cross itself.
It was said to be a miracle.
And so it was said, as the cardinals took the Cross of Saint Odile on a tour of Avilogne — a penny to see it, a penny to pray over it, and every one of those pennies went into the fund for our walls, our roof, our bell-less belfries.
But I hear the cardinals now, and the truth sinks me lower than the Sarluire.
The relic was a sham. False. It had never been blessed. It had never been authenticated. It was not canonized — it was just a random sliver of wood.
And now the funding is gone. The construction halted.
We spend the rest of our spring watching the labor slowly cease. The cardinals stop visiting to see how the walls are coming along. The bishop doesn’t show up to look at the foundation. The carpenters, the stonecutters, the masons, the glassmakers all arrive one last time, and then they never come again.
If every relic bought by a bishop were real, then John the Baptist would have grown and lost more than a dozen heads. The Holy Baby would have lost ten sets of milk teeth on every continent. The apostles would have dunked their feet into hundreds of washbasins with enough droplets of water to make an ocean, and a whole tree could be made from all the splinters of the true cross that had been recovered over the years.
All that work, all those years, all those springs—
And no one has come for us.
Every spring for fifty years now, I have remembered our last spring as a cathedral in progress.
Fifty years now without hope. Without purpose.
I think of the false relic, how it made liars of the cardinals. How it made a liar out of me.
“I am a gargoyle,” I used to say with pride, “and it is my duty to keep watch. I will watch over everyone in the city. I will keep them safe.”
A hundred springs, and I will sit up here for a hundred more. A hundred springs, and every time I close my eyes, I see her face — the face of my maker. How she would crumble if she knew I had failed.
I see the faces of the mother and the baby, sinking below the surface of the Sarluire, her hair like a red flame in the water.
I see my own stone claws, clutching my ledge. The night I was a mountain, unmoving. Useless as a rock.
And I will sit here for another hundred years, until, like a mountain, I crumble.
Every spring the same. Every day the same.
And so this morning, when Harpy breathes in and croons, “Ah, smell that lilac this morning! What a glorious spring!” I feel my stone flare hot.
I am mineral and flame. I burst out laughing, even though it costs me a breath that I don’t think I can spare. “Is it, now? Is it glorious? More glorious than that spring day our cardinals walked away? More glorious than the first spring with no new stone? No new ribbing? More glorious than—”
I pause. Something is stuck in my throat.
I cough and hack it up: a pebble. A pebble, dislodged from my own stone.
I spit it out; it bounces down the wall of the cathedral and lands on the ground with a plink. A part of me, loose.
It’s happening. I am turning to gravel as we speak. It should fill me with dread. I am coming apart — becoming dust. But instead, all I can do is chuckle.
“What?” Harpy screeches. “What’s so funny?”
My laugh makes my whole self shake, and another chunk of me falls down into the water — a piece of my claw, where the bird’s nest is musty and old.
After all these years, it’s finally happening.
“We are finally falling apart,” I say. We are finally crumbling — and all I can do is watch. Watch and wait, the gargoyle’s curse.
Some things never change — until one day, they do.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Harpy bursts out. “They won’t tear us down; they’ve only had a hiccup in funding! They’ll be back to finish us. You’ve got loose gravel for brains!” Her voice is shrill, but it trumpets with the sharpness of panic. She doesn’t believe a word she is saying.
Perhaps if this were another spring, our first spring on the roof together, I could comfort her—
But I was not made to comfort.
I wonder what would happen if a gargoyle tried to cry. I wonder if rainwater would leak out of our stony eyes.
Harpy sounds close enough to it; I can feel her clinging to her tattered hope, holding on to it the way the river grips its banks.
But it is over. A hundred years since our first stone blocks were set in the dirt, and a hundred years of waiting. We will never be completed.
A pigeon chooses this terrible moment to flap toward me, looking for a safe place to land, and I growl. I growl so loud, it rattles off the tops of the buildings all around us. I growl so loud, the laundress next door drops her basket and the fruit on the trees in the abbey garden quivers.
The east-side gargoyles go quiet, and the sky darkens, almost as if the spring sun itself is cowering.
The bird flies away in a frenzy, her heart pitter-pattering away inside her chest.
And down below our cathedral, one of the Glorious Sisters of Mercy is in the garden, and she glances up at our roof. The first time someone has looked at us in so many years, but it’s too late.
“You are too late!” I thunder. “You want to stare at the ugly monster? Look all you want while you still have a chance — we’ll be dust soon enough!”
Above, the sky is heavenly blue. Below, the Sarluire streams cold.
The east-side gargoyles do not whisper. After a hundred years, they have run out of things to say.
And now it is finally quiet. Quiet enough that I can hear the clouds move. Quiet enough that I can hear the hiss of candles’ wicks in the windows of Odierne as day becomes night. Quiet enough that I can hear water dripping off a distant roof, mocking me. I am not a waterspout.
And now I know that I will never be.
A gargoyle is not made to house nests, to court birds, to sing, or to pray. A gargoyle is for spitting water and protecting its cathedral and nothing else.
I am no waterspout, and I have no cathedral to protect.
I have a pile of stones, some unfinished walls, a nave full of grimy child thieves, and a rooftop with the worst view in Odierne. I have a broken claw and an empty toe. I have a headache that squeezes my stone like a vise and a hunger that cannot be thwarted. I have dislodged enough pebbles today to know that the end is coming soon.
There is something eating away at my insides, something dull and many-legged, something that aches.
And I cannot stop seeing the mother and the baby, leaping off my roof and into the water.
She came to the cathedral for sanctuary, but I could not protect them.
I should have protected them. I should have growled at the constable, snarled and grimaced. I should have dived into the water after them.
But I am not a proper gargoyle — and I never will be.
Our dusty stone blocks will be split up, our timber sent to other construction sites to raise up new walls. Some of the stones will go along the edges of the canal when it inevitably floods. Some will go to build additions to parish churches, to make fireplaces in orphanages, to line village greens. The humblest of building materials, though they were once set aside to be a part of something truly great. A miracle.
Some of the stones will go back to the quarry where they came from. Pulled from a mountain, shaped and polished, sent down the river to be slathered in mortar and stand for a hundred years, and then back they will go, back out into the wild.
After all these years, and our cathedral will be sectioned off. Split apart.
I do not know what will happen to us gargoyles. Perhaps if I had not been worn down for one hundred years, I might hope to be taken somewhere I could still see the stars. But I don’t have it in me to hope.
Gargoyles do not hope. Gargoyles protect.
No more whispers on the roof. No more east-side gossiping, no more wind howling through our stones.
It is almost too quiet—
But when the Glorious Sisters of Mercy ring out their voices proudly in chorus, the sound of it makes me quiver with rage.
“Stop!” I cry out. “Stop, stop singing!”
Every note they hit is joyful, faithful, and I can only think of the baby’s coos, its whimpers. I am crumbling, crumbling, when I think of those sounds again.
I try to sing out over the Sisters’ hateful hymn with my own dirty words, but my chest spasms. Just as well. What can I do? I am only a gargoyle.
A gargoyle, alone in a world that has forgotten me.
Alone. Always by myself.
Soon I will be dust.
I wish I had saved them. Of all the things I wish for, I wish I could go back to that night and move.
I wish I could hurl my stone body off the roof, down into the river.
I wonder what happens if a gargoyle cries. I wonder if tears can leak from stone even when there is no rain.
I gasp out a sob, and I have my answer.
Suspicion, Again
A few weeks after Easter, Griselde Baker was called to a guild meeting in Perpinnet. She’d be gone for several days . . . which meant the bakery would be left in the care of her journeyman and her apprentice.
“Now, technically, Petrus is in charge,” Griselde said as she set her bag into a waiting cart, “but you’re the only one who knows where the extra sugar is.”
“Down in the cupboard beneath the tins,” Duck recited, but she couldn’t keep the glumness out of her voice. She had a sinking sense of dread whenever she thought about being alone with Petrus.
He still looked at her sideways, and she was still a thief.
“I’ll be back Saturday if I have to pull the wagon myself.” Griselde patted the rump of the gray mare that would be towing her to Perpinnet as if to say, No pressure, and climbed into the cart, her cane in hand. “Now, I made Petrus promise not to push you around, but perhaps you should voluntarily stay out of his way.” To her journeyman, she called, “Remember, we’re legally contracted to keep our apprentice alive.”
“Indeed.” From the doorway, Petrus scowled at Duck as if he’d just been asked to care for a cockroach.
When the handler cracked his whip and the horse jolted forward, the journeyman spun on his heel and went back inside. Duck lingered, watching the baker travel down the streets of Odierne until she was nothing more than a dot, indistinguishable from any other person strolling the city.
It felt colder all of a sudden. Duck glanced up, expecting to see the gray clouds of an impending storm rolling through the sky, but it was sunny.
She rubbed the chill from her arms and headed back into the bakery.
Petrus was examining the daily task list, frowning, and Duck tucked herself at the table, sifting the flour for this week’s sweet cakes.
“What on earth does she mean?” Petrus scratched his head, looking utterly confounded. “Can you tell what this says?” He held out the list, and Duck leaned closer.
“Trenchers for Farmer Chewins,” she read.
“Huh. She must have written this in a rush.”
Duck hunched over a little as she made her confession: “Um, I wrote that.”
“You?” Petrus narrowed his eyes as he inspected the list again. “You wrote this bird scratch?”
Duck sank back in her chair.
She’d been working hard at her letters. Master Frobertus said she was getting better with the pen, but Petrus was right: the writing was shaky and messy and—
“I mean, it’s decent enough for someone of your age and status. You’re a mere child, after all,” Petrus said after a moment. It was the closest he’d ever come to complimenting her.
“I am learning,” she replied quietly.
“You are.” Petrus straightened, clearing his throat. “I’ll handle the wheat loaves and the miller if you’ll do the trenchers.”
Duck nodded, and the two of them set to work.
Petrus was usually a quiet worker, much more so than Griselde, but he seemed to forget that Duck was in the kitchen, and he started to hum.
He hummed “The Song of Roland” and “Foy Porter,” then started in on some pastourelle about a knight and a common woman, turned into a rabbit by a witch’s spell — it was familiar to Duck, but she hadn’t heard it in years.
“By your joy, I am gladdened,” he warbled as he kneaded the dough, “if only . . . if only . . .” He paused and searched the vents above, as if the rest of the lyrics were written there.
“If only toward me you were more human,” Duck finished in a tiny voice.
Petrus spun around, a grin on his face. “That’s it!” he cried, and sang the line again in his own airy tenor. He pushed the tins in to bake, then reached into a drawer for the chisel to chip out a bit of charred dough that had hardened near the mouth of the oven—
And then he stopped.
“Duck?” He peered around him, looking at all the counters. “The chisel is gone.” He opened the drawer again. “And I know it was here yesterday, because I used it. And I put it right back in this drawer.” He turned and looked at Duck, hardness in his eyes.
Her heart dropped into her stomach — but before she could mumble out an alibi, Petrus sighed and straightened.
“Let’s look together,” he said. “You check the kitchen. I’ll go search the storeroom. Maybe Griselde . . .” He trailed off, giving Duck an almost rueful glance as he vanished down the hall. They both knew it wasn’t likely that he’d find it in there.
Duck opened every drawer, searched every cupboard. She got on her hands and knees and scanned the floorboards, checking every corner, every crevice — and all the while, her pulse hammered faster and faster.
The chisel was gone. Duck definitely hadn’t taken it.
And Griselde wasn’t here to help her fend off Petrus, who would undoubtedly call the constable.
“It’s not in the storeroom. Or on the porch.” Petrus laced his tone with an added optimism, but his brows were already knitted together as he strolled back into the kitchen. “Did you find it?”
Duck swallowed. “No.”
It was quiet. “No?” Petrus repeated, troubled.
“I’m sorry,” Duck murmured. “I — I don’t know where it went.”
“Oh, I think I have an idea.” Petrus folded his arms, his jaw clenched. “And I have some ideas about how much it’s worth. Shall I check your mattress for spare coins again?”
“N-no,” Duck stammered. “I mean, yes. You can check my mattress. But I didn’t take the chisel.” Let him turn her whole bedroom upside down — he wouldn’t find so much as a loose penny.
She’d given all her pennies to Le Chou last market day.
Petrus leaned against the counter, away from her — but it still felt like he was looming over her. As though he already knew what she was and was just waiting for her to say it. “Then where is it?”
Perhaps last summer, Duck would have stayed silent. Last year, Duck would have just stared at her feet and let Petrus accuse her.
But she and Petrus had just started getting along.
Even without Griselde here to play peacemaker or command Petrus to be nice to Duck as if it were one of his official tasks as journeyman.
Working with Petrus today had even been . . . fun.
Last year, Duck would have only cared about not getting caught.
But things change.
“All right,” she said, her legs trembling. “I don’t know where the chisel is.” She took in a long, deep breath. “But . . . I think I can get it back.”
It was the most terrifying thing she’d ever said out loud. She set a hand on the table to steady herself.
Petrus said nothing for the longest time. He stared at her, and Duck stared at the floor, and inside the ovens, the flames licked and crackled.
“All right,” he finally said. “Go get the chisel. Bring it back.” No promises that she would be absolved if she could retrieve it. No promises to let this whole incident go, to forget it had ever happened—
But right before Duck left, Petrus ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “Duck, I . . . I know I’ve been hard on you. For good reason — our last apprentice . . . he took advantage of Griselde, and it — it devastated her. I won’t let anyone else hurt her like that. Never again.”
