A Knife's Tale (ONC 2021)

Chapter Eight

My mind froze when Guinevere mentioned the woman.

It couldn't possibly have been Madame Estrella. She shared some similarities—the hair, the eyes, the capability of handling and speaking to spirits—but that's as far as it went. After 200 years, the chances of her being alive were slim to none, even if she'd hardly aged over the ten years I'd spent with her.

Guinevere stops grinding the bucket handle against the wall and rolls her eyes at me. "That's the last time I tell you a story. That thing ripped my mother to shreds, and all you care about is the nameless woman who only stayed with me long enough to drop me off at that miserable place."

I definitely don't want her to stop speaking to me, but it's been a while since I've had to apologize and I'm not sure if it'll work with my lack of facial expression. "I offer my sincerest condolences for your loss. I'm sure your mother was a wonderful woman, and that her beetroot recipe was the best in the town."

She laughs. "You think I was serious? I told you, I'm over it. And, don't mention beetroots again. I still haven't washed the taste of dirt from my mouth since then."

"Honestly, I was never a fan of them either. Gran's beet soup tasted like sweaty feet."

Her eyes widen. "You'd mentioned giving money to your grandmother before. What was she like?"

Guinevere's interest in my past delights me, and I quickly oblige her with an answer. "Uh, well it was two hundred years ago. But I mostly remember her smacking my forehead whenever I broke the smallest rule and being forced to weed the garden or shovel holes as punishment."

"Did you ever get to see her again after the disaster with Madame Estella?"

"I begged her to give me to Gran and let me live back at home. At least, then I'd be chopping cabbages instead of skin, and I'd be able to watch over her. But every time I mentioned it or even thought about it, Madame Estrella made me take another dip in the acid bath."

At the time, it killed me knowing that Gran thought I was dead, and that I couldn't see what happened to her after she'd lost my income. Every time she dipped me into the acid, she told me knives don't talk, knives don't think, knives just cut.

It was a huge relief when thieves raided her property and they tossed me into a sack, never to see her again.

"Seems your time with her wasn't much different from how that place treated me..." she mumbles while starting on her work again.

It confuses me, but I don't question it. I'm pretty sure she's never been dipped in acid, since her skin is nearly flawless. Surely, nothing comparable had been done to her either.

A creak of the floorboard upstairs draws me away from the thought. "Quick! Put everything away. He's back. You'd best prepare yourself—it'll hurt this time."

She hides the metal piece in between the two buckets and sits down. Her face changes in an instant, and false despair and self-pity replace her determination. Tears roll down her cheek as if on cue. It seems Guinevere wants to give Lawrence a bit of a show.

Too bad that what he really wants involves more seeing her fear.

The door opens, and he comes in, carrying a new tray of stale biscuits and a metal case slightly larger than the brick behind me. He's humming again—nothing good happens whenever he hums.

"Have you thought it over yet? If you give me your sincerest apology, I may consider forgiving you," he says as he drops the tray and the case on the bench.

"Don't apologize. His forgiveness definitely is not something you'd want. Unless you want his tongue down your throat," I say, though I didn't really need to because Guinevere would never apologize.