Page 3 of Red in Tooth and Claw

I was separated from the gunslinger after that, as he was dropped off at the bunkhouse and I was given a tour. I was right in regard to the buildings I’d guessed at. The dining hall and kitchens were in the main building, with two doors leading out of the kitchen. One, I was told, led to the root cellar. The other hid a tidy little apothecary room, which Miss Moon called the Still. It was clearly her domain, where I would present myself if ever I had a cough or a cut.

“A small cut can lead to a larger infection,” she warned. “I know how prideful you young folks can be, but I advise you not to hide such things from me. Come get them cleaned and bandaged. We don’t have a sawbones anywhere close to call for when there’s something major.”

With that admonishment, she led me into the dining hall, which was filled with tables and benches and doubled as a schoolroom for the youngest children. It was noisy now, full of most of the Settlement’s youngins and some adults. Someone had gone to lengths to soften the dining room. Mason jars full of local greenery sat in the middle of each table. Sunlight peered through more windows, but these were flanked by gingham curtains. A painting hung at one end of the room—someone with more enthusiasm than talent had painted the sun using cheerful yellows, burning oranges, and reds the color of fresh blood. The sun was a symbol of the followers of the Shining God, otherwise known as the Order of His Benevolent Mercy. It was the only painting in the hall.

Right now, a few of the older girls were attending to about a dozen or so ankle biters, teaching them their lessons, or helping them learn some of the smaller household tasks youngins their age could manage.

“The second floor contains sleeping arrangements for the elders of the Settlement,” Miss Moon said, leading me out of the dining hall. “With the exception of myself. I’ll show you my rooms after the chapel, so you know where to go if there’s trouble.”

We entered the chapel, the watery winter sun casting a golden path on the planking of the floor. Miss Moon closed the doors behind us, and the light dimmed. Wooden pews marched up a carpeted aisle, the air redolent with beeswax and incense. No tallow candles for this chapel.

Two men stood at the front, a larger mural of the sun behind them, covering the entire back wall. As my eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, I caught smaller details around the chapel—a piano off to one side, a few candelabras stacked on top for later use. A fiddle case leaned against the piano, and my hopes rose a fraction. My fingers fair itched to open the case, to pluck the strings with my fingers. I shoved my hands into my pockets to avoid the temptation. The lectern in front of the men was covered in golden cloth, delicate embroidery marching down the sides of it in red and orange hues.

The two men were deep in discussion, pausing when they caught sight of Miss Moon. The younger man snatched up the notebook he’d had laid out on the lectern, like he was afraid we’d sully it with our eyes. The other man beamed a smile at us, holding his hands in front of him. “Miss Moon.”

She ushered me forward, introducing me as soon as we were close enough. “Mr.Kelly, may I present to you His Benevolence Gideon Dillard, as well as Acolyte Ignatius Stuckley. His Benevolence founded the Settlement, so you have him to thank for your current situation.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said dutifully, though I thought her wording a mite odd. Her tone had made it sound good, even if her words lacked enthusiasm. It was a puzzle.

Gideon Dillard flashed a winsome smile as he patted her shoulder. “How kind, Miss Moon. You’re in good hands here, Mr.Kelly. Miss Moon is the backbone of the Settlement.”

The acolyte sniffed. “While Miss Moon is indeed in charge of your earthly self, we shall be overseeing your spiritual needs.” His fingers traced the stitching on his fine gold vest.

Dillard and Stuckley appeared different in disposition—Stuckley had his nose up to us, while Dillard was all welcoming smiles—and yet they were a matched pair. Dillard was a handsome man, robust and full of the kind of charm that drew the eye. His voice had a sweet music to it, rich and rolling.

Stuckley, I could already tell, dogged his heels like a particularly pious hound dog. While Dillard was a striking man, Ignatius Stuckley was more celestial in his beauty, as if his god might reach out at any time and take him back. Pretty in a delicate sort of way, like the fine tea set in the mayor’s house back in New Retienne. He wasn’t made for everyday use, just special occasions, and should perhaps spend the rest of his time on a shelf.

Dillard’s eyes turned solemn. “I know you’ve recently lost a loved one, Mr.Kelly, and while we cannot replace them in your heart, please know that not only are you welcome here, but we are all here for you in your time of need.” He clasped my shoulder. “This is your home now. We are your family.”

I was of a mind that family didn’t need to tell you they were family, but I kept that to myself. “Thank you, Your Benevolence.”

His grin returned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Please, call me HisBen. We’ll be here all day otherwise.”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Acolyte Stuckley cleared his throat. “I’m sure Mr.Kelly needs to be settled in. Miss Moon?” It was a clear dismissal, his chin up, though I suspected he was years younger than Miss Moon. He clutched his notebook to his chest.

“Of course,” Miss Moon said, already herding me away. “Good day, Acolyte Stuckley. HisBen Dillard.”

As she shepherded me up the aisle, it finally occurred to me that it was so dark in the chapel because they had most of the shutters snapped closed. The days were getting longer, but the sun still went down perishingly early, and I couldn’t make sense of why anyone wouldn’t make use of it. Had they simply popped into the chapel and not bothered to open the shutters, or were they trying to keep people from peering in?

The next stop on our tour proved that my initial suspicions were correct—the building that hugged the full wall of the palisade turned out to be the bunkhouse. The structure was split into two parts—girls on one side, boys on the other. I wondered where Miss Moon would stick me.

We went into the girls’ side of the bunkhouse first. Inside the door, there were pegs for jackets, a space for boots, and some shelving where extra clothing, towels, and blankets lived. Parallel to the front door stood another room, separated by a calico print curtain that had been pushed to the side so I could peer in. Miss Moon had a small but serviceable room—a bed, crisply made, a quilt resting on top. A simply built wooden table held a spray of flowers, a brush, and a small blue bottle that I guessed had some sort of perfume in it.

A sampler covered in delicate plants and flowers, their names neatly stitched below, had been hung on the wall. It was well done, the stitches beautifully rendered. I wasn’t any good at such things, though I enjoyed looking at them. It took a patience and an amount of care, which I found difficult. It was a peaceful room, an oasis.

“That is my room. If there’s any sort of emergency at night, you can find me there,” Miss Moon said, and I could hear the quiet pride in her voice. She had the same look in her eye when she ushered me past the larger space of the bunkhouse where the girls slept. Rough-hewn bunk beds were nestled perpendicular to the walls, each made up with a precision that told me this was Miss Moon’s domain. No wrinkled quilts or crooked pillows here. Two chests were tucked under every bottom bunk, where the residents would keep their clothing and other possessions. A potbellied stove sat in the middle, casting warmth into the space. Someone had strung a rope or two along the ceiling to hang laundry on wet days. As we turned to leave the bunkhouse, I noticed more samplers of wildflowers dotting the walls, and the occasional dolly tucked into a few of the beds.

It was a decidedly homey place and, I admit, finer than I’d been expecting. Miss Moon took me into the boys’ bunkhouse next, where I was handed new clothes like I’d seen on the two youngins earlier. A ready-made flannel shirt, thick brown canvas pants, as well as a set of long underwear. I already had a good set of suspenders, and I was allowed to keep my boots, as they were in decent shape and had been oiled to keep the wet out.

“We’ll set you up with another set of clothes shortly, but these will do for now. You’ll sew your name into the collar. Washing is done communally, but upkeep is expected to be done by you.” She eyed me carefully. “You can sew, can’t you?”

I nodded, casting a quick eye over the clothes. They’d been worn before—I could see a little fraying around the cuffs and evidence that someone else’s name had been stitched into the collar and then removed at some point. They were still in fine shape.

“Good. We expect you to look neat and tidy at all times. Your appearance reflects on the Settlement.”

“May I keep my hat?” I was dusting off my best manners and polite tone. I wanted my things back for certain, but I also didn’t want to be searched for contraband. My toe poked the bundle of rags tucked into my boot, reassuring me that my grandfather’s watch was still there.

Miss Moon frowned at me. I’d taken my hat off as instructed when we’d stepped through the creaking doors and into the girls’ bunkhouse earlier. We were in an alcove that acted as sort of a coatroom. I’d placed my hat neatly on top of the new getup in my hands, and Miss Moon looked from it to my hair.

There was no missing my hair, though I’d shorn it as close to my scalp as the scissors could manage. Even in the dim light of the bunkhouse, I’m sure it burned like the blazes. Esther pursed her lips—whether at the color or my poor barbering skills, I wasn’t sure—and met my gaze. “I suppose you can keep your hat.”

To make others feel more comfortable and so they don’t burn you in your bed was implied heavily. But at least she didn’t make that twice-cursed gesture that Cartwright used to ward off evil.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She led me into a long, narrow room. I was surprised to find that every building in the Settlement had at least one window. The beds and bedding were similar to the items found in the girls’ bunkhouse, and were almost as neatly made. I suspected Miss Moon inspected this room regularly as well. A few rolled-up bedrolls suggested that a few of the smaller youngins slept on the floor close to the stove.

The furniture was sturdy, lacking anything in the way of frills or ornamentation, though well-made. The center of the room held an iron-bellied woodstove, and the far end held a curtain. Someone had left it pushed aside, revealing the woodpile and more shelves full of supplies, as well as a basic washstand.

Miss Moon nodded at the washstand. “As you can see, there’s a basin back there with a pitcher, soap, and towels. We expect you to stay clean.” Miss Moon shooed me toward it. “Go ahead. You’ve missed dinner, but I’ll bring you and William a plate. Hurry up now.”

I pulled the curtain into place, waiting to hear her feet retreating before I stripped down, being careful of my boots. I’d jammed the rag into the toe pretty tight, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t fall out at the slightest provocation.

I paused, listening, trying to see if anyone was close. I needed to take off my shirt to clean my pits, and I needed to redo my binding. The binding was going to be a problem. I only had the one now, the other tucked into the suitcase that had been confiscated, and I’d need to wash it at some point. Not now. I couldn’t deal with it now. Once I’d unwrapped my chest, I did a quick swipe with the rag and redid the binding, relief washing over me as soon as it was done.

The gunslinger was already tucking into his meal when I came out from behind the curtain. I hadn’t even heard him enter. He must be quiet as a tiptoeing cat. He was hunched on one of the lower bunks, a tin plate on his lap. The bed wasn’t generous by any means, and he was going to have a hard time of it.

I had to stifle a smile, but he caught it.

“All of the single rooms are full. I’m to bed up with you striplings.” He handed me another plate, which was covered with a cloth napkin. “With compliments from Esther.”

“You’re going to be crinkled up as an old apple by morning,” I said, settling on the bunk across from him so we were facing each other and placing the napkin on my lap. I was greeted with the smell of beans, corn bread, and a dollop of canned peaches. Little chunks of meat swam in the beans, and I eyed them a little warily. I’m not saying I wouldn’t eat rat if I wasn’t hungry, but I wasn’t quite that hungry yet .

“I’m told it’s venison,” Mr.Speed said with a faint smile to his voice.

“But did you believe it?” I speared the meat with a fork and shoved it into my mouth. Whatever it was, it was gamey.

The gunslinger’s face remained straight, his mouth a stern line, but his eyes danced. “I thought it best to not think too hard on the matter until after I filled my belly and it was too late.”

My eyes smiled at his in return, as this was a sentiment I could get behind. As I chewed, I realized I’d started to like the gunslinger. It was a wobbly feeling, new and freshly born, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Part of me didn’t want it—wanted to cut it off at the knees and bury it deep.

No good came from liking a person. The good ones left, and the bad ones stuck around too close.

But another part of me wanted to guard the feeling fiercely, wrapping my arms around it and keeping it against my skin. I didn’t know which one to listen to, so I concentrated on my meal. Food had been scarce since my grandfather got sick. I’d given him the lion’s share, scrimping on my own. Everything else had gone to the sawbones.

I’d grown so used to being hungry, to that hollow ache in my gut, that I didn’t know what to do with the feeling of being full. I stared stupidly at my plate for a moment, my eyes smarting for no good reason.

Mr.Speed gave a sigh, wiping his mouth with the napkin. “Not fancy, but filling.” He set his plate aside, his gaze casting over the room. “I have to admit, this place is finer than I thought.”

I scraped my spoon along the edges of the plate, trying to get up the last of the canned peaches. “It has far exceeded my expectations.” I didn’t look up from my plate until I was done, setting mine aside as he had his.

Mr.Speed’s watchful gaze was back on me, his elbows on his knees as he dug out his tobacco and papers to roll a cigarette. “Is that saying much?”

“No, sir,” I said with a shake of my head. “My expectations were somewhere down in the dirt, so exceeding them wasn’t difficult.” I’d conjured a bleak picture of the Settlement. Like the full plate of food, the reality was a shock to the system. Warm, thick clothing. My own bed. Good soap, full meals. Windows letting in a wash of evening light.

And like the meal, I no longer knew how to process it. My life, so long defined by worries and deprivation, was now fuzzy with meaning. The Settlement was a promise of caretaking, an extended hand. All I had to do was keep my head down and hand over the reins. It would be so easy.

But it put me on edge. I didn’t trust a thing if I couldn’t see the cost. No, my plan would remain the same. Lie low for now. Learn the way of things.

And if I saw a chance to get back home, take it.