I walk to my fountain. The musicians must not have seen the collar properly in the low light, the fountain tells me. I want its words to make me feel better, but I’m not sure it’s telling the truth.

I let my bare feet dangle in the fountain’s water. The new shoes have rubbed them raw. My toes move back and forth, cool and light, but I’m not feeling the freedom I thought I might after a day as a curse.

The nails of my toes are filthy. I jiggle my toes so I can’t see the dirt through the water. The flesh on my calf moves back and forth. That’s new. Mayhap my monthly courses will come back with all this new plump on me. I stopped getting them when food got scarce. I’ll need to get blood moss and sew up blood breeches to hold them in place.

I remind myself again that I’m free. Beholden to none. I jiggle my leg again to see the flesh wiggle. But it’s no good. My mother was skilled at this sort of thing, at doing as she pleased. But not me. I run my tongue over my back teeth where there’s still the faint taste of orange. Eating sweets is nice. Having new shoes is, too. But what would please me more?

To live in my old home.

To have my old life.

To see Da again.

I can’t get these things. But I do think of one thing I can get.

I leave the fountain and make my way back through town. It doesn’t take long to find what I want in the back of a wagon. And none see me lift it.

When I arrive home there’s no messengers waiting. Off looking for me, mayhap. My squatters are gone too. I go up to my loft with what I took from the wagon. It’s not a particularly valuable thing. Just a wooden box. I place it on the bottom shelf alongside Ruth’s, alongside the boxes of all the sin eaters before me. I don’t have anything to put in it yet. But in time I might. It feels good to see it next to the others.

I haven’t more than sat down on my mattress when a rapping comes at the door. I wonder if there’s ever a day that passes on this earth without death. A whole day of only life, living and thriving. There’s another rapping at the door. Not this day.

The messenger’s well dressed and wears a badge I don’t know. A Recitation, he tells me, for a condemned prisoner in the Queen’s dungeon. I feel the little plum stone in my chest again, grating against my heart. I’m going back to the place Ruth died.

17. HIPPOCRAS