More thoughts wriggled in my head, individual threads that I must weave together in a tapestry of coherent guesswork.

I had always known that Blake hated me. At the very least, I felt that he tolerated my presence, but back then, I only thought that the reason he hated me was that I was useless. A freeloader, a leech that needs to latch onto their efforts to survive. He had kept me as a pet to boost morale, to keep lonely Wilbur company. It also did not help soothe his annoyance that I was immune to his powers.

He also mentioned something about the last monastery.

There was something in his expression that was hungry for something else. It looked like it was the culmination of all his efforts, the reward of the decades performing this charade, the years he kept his face under cowl and robes. It looked like finally, he was about to see the world truly burn.

Why would he bother keeping me as part of his flock then? Why not kill me the moment he found me? What was special about this monastery? It felt like he was keeping me for something. He said as much in that fiery field. He had been confident that nothing will interfere with the final key action of his plans and so had been reckless to give me a hint of what he had in store for me. I tapped my fingers underneath the chair. Was he intending to sacrifice me? Was this the way he wanted to eliminate his error? The walking failure always up in his face. The ever-present nuisance that was free of the curse of his dark brotherhood, free of their thirst for blood. I frowned. Out of all my brothers, it was Knox’s voice that appeared suddenly. He said something to Swithin when he came back from recon: “you cannot be so weak from using your powers so soon”. My muddled head was screaming at me. The answer was right there, so close, but it felt on the opposite side of a glass wall.

My brothers did not need to eat food, but their powers can be depleted through exhaustion. And they needed blood to replenish themselves. And since they did not bleed themselves, they needed blood from—

I gasped audibly. A chill shot up my spine.

The townspeople. The villagers. The people we mended and fed. The wreckage that followed after. I had thought them to be cattle for Blake. Claude’s staff swirled in my mind. It was possible I was not far off.

“Erin?” Claude’s voice called me back from my thoughts. I was in the living room once again, looking at all the worried faces surrounding me. “You don’t seem well. You haven’t touched your food.”

“Oh.” I quickly thought of an explanation.

It was difficult for me to marshal my thoughts, to reel myself back into this quaint little cottage with all its warmth and comfort. To buy myself some time, I dipped my spoon into the bowl laid in front of me and placed it in my mouth. It has cooled considerably since the short time I was in my head, but it was effective in grounding me back into the present. I had felt so cold that I thought the spirit of this cottage had abandoned me, shocked and disgusted by the images I conjured. But once the warm liquid went down my throat, the presence helped me find the words to explain my behavior. “I’m sorry. I suppose I am a little light-headed! But our meal sure helped. It is delicious, lady Joan.”

She flashed a smile. “I am glad.” She resumed her talk with Woodrow, something about muse and artists. But Claude and Wilbur were still looking intently at me. They both mirrored each other’s looks of concern. Claude’s thick brows were furrowed, his lips poised to ask a question.

I smiled at him and shook my head. “It is nothing.”

He nodded and attacked his own soup with gusto, though I had a feeling it was more for my sake than his appetite. Or it was both. Maybe we were acting that everything was fine for each other. I also had a feeling that he was sneaky enough to listen to my conversation with Wilbur, based on his quick glances at us. So, I held my tongue until after we were alone again and tried my best to stay in the moment.

It wasn’t hard to do after all.

The soup we had smelled from outside the cottage was nothing compared to its taste. Every time I took a spoonful, it brought me back to my senses. The sweet caramelized onions blended well with the salt of cheese. The herbs enhanced its flavor, not overpower it like so many people have done. Then again, the reason why they added so many rosemaries and thyme was because their soup was bland. They were lucky to get cabbage and pig bones floating in theirs. Wilbur can cook fine delicious meals, but it was different from how Joan prepared them. It could very well be because she had a complete line of ingredients on her shelves, but I could really feel the love she put in it. There was no hurried panic in her food, no trace of desperation.

Wilbur copied a recipe, maybe experimented with it a little just so he can add more nutrients the body needs. Joan, meanwhile, did it from the heart; from her grit, from her temperance, and from her love of her family. She added no bitter resentment to the soup; not from her status and current predicament, and not from this hostile, unfair, unjust world.

I finished the bowl in one big gulp and politely slammed the bottom of the bowl on the table. I quickly glanced at Wilbur who was looking at me with a humored expression, one eyebrow raised. Claude wiped his own face with the back of his hand–his hunger and delight for his favorite meal caused some of the soup to slide from the corner of his lips when he brought the bowl close.

My brothers and Claude’s mother conversed about recipes. Joan seemed more relaxed now, put at ease with Woodrow’s many stories and Wilbur’s small empty bowl. I was surprised that they really tasted her cooking and did not secretly throw it outside. It was odd to me that human food entered those lips. Not once did I ever see Wilbur eat. I wasn’t sure he had any memories before of eating. Whenever there were feasts and celebrations, he just stayed by the walls. He prepared them but never partook. The people wondered how he can control himself.

After trading recipes with Wilbur, Joan steered the conversation towards house and farm work. My brothers found that there was not much difference separating Joan’s domestic life from our monastic life, apart from the experimentation of dead bodies, charming people into a false sense of security, and all the other such mundane experiences of life enhanced by our powers, of course.

Woodrow regaled some of his antics to Joan; some wild and some tame. Joan didn’t even flinch, but only laughed and nodded. These were stories he did not mention to us, though why would he? He knew what we thought of him. Soon, I was laughing along with Joan, at his many jokes. Both he and Wilbur now raised questioning eyebrows at me. It surprised even me. When I was with Woodrow, I was aggravated. Now, under the warm glow of the candles, between bites of delicious warm soup, with Claude and Joan’s presence, it was easier to laugh.

I wasn’t with the ever-present cold spot whenever Blake was around. Without his influence gripping my chest, it was easier to let my real feelings out. All my life, I tried to make myself feel small. Laughter and mirth were forbidden, save for the few moments I was with Wilbur underground. Most days and most nights, I stitched my mouth shut.

The people we raised, yes, they can laugh and cry and make noise outside the monastery. In their own villages, in the fields nearby. But they will soon be slain. Like the sheep bleating and the pigs snorting and the chickens calling.

The effect of Blake’s absence and this family’s presence was evident, too, in Wilbur and Woodrow’s shoulders. Back in the field, just before meeting Claude, we felt the terror of impending doom. It was still there as we sat on this table, keeping us from completely melding into this household, but we felt it ebb away and give room for some resolution. Resolution to fight back. Resolution to gather all our strength. It gave room for resolution and hope.

I saw a different side to Woodrow now, in the full view of firelight.

The image of him being haughty and irritating slowly turned into someone who was dependable, truly charming, and compassionate.

He had chosen to come side with us. He was resolute in never harming me again. And there was that memory of a baby too; the truest image of innocence personified. There has to be a connection. Indeed, he looked more like a homemaker now than when he was at all the monasteries we’ve been. The way he wiped each mess on the table as soon as it landed, like a hawk swooping down on a rabbit. Like Swithin himself when hunting for sport. The way he served the soup with such flourish, with arms bent gracefully and poised so as not to let any drop spill. The way he had re-braided some garlic and grouped herbs together. Wilbur was impressed. Woodrow looked at peace, and he looked like he was in his element.

He wasn’t charming Joan and Claude—or rather, he wasn’t using his powers to charm them. He did not need to. His easy, natural, normal charm was enough. He answered each question with a smile. He drew Joan with delicious gossip, and, upon seeing Claude finding the gossips tasteless, drew them both in with tales about families and farmland, chivalry and loyalty, and familial love. He could have put all the women that told all those folk stories over the fire to shame. His stories were more alive, as bright as he was. His hair could be the fire that held their attention.

It was a shame I didn’t get to see this side of him before. When I looked at Wilbur, it looked like he might be thinking the same thing. If we had thought him of substance, of more character other than being obnoxious, of more qualities other than being pretty, then we would have accompanied him or allowed his company to mingle with ours. I saw it now: Wilbur teaching him some of his secrets of gardenwork; of how to care for plants and herbs and flowers and crops so they grow to be plump and pretty and strong, to be the highest quality for his dishes and his decoration.

But why didn’t Woodrow show this side of him before?

The answer came instantly.

Blake. It was always Blake.

I should not be surprised by the strangest things Blake did to us by now. Still, why? It wasn’t like there was any harm in allowing Woodrow to be in the kitchens or wherever else that showed this side of him. Was Blake conscious of this, even?

Another thought to fill in the tapestries of guesswork; did Blake know about Woodrow’s affinity with housework?

Did Woodrow like to work the kitchens after all but was forbidden by Blake? It would explain why he was frequently wandering about the halls near our stations whenever he arrived back from his missions. His red hair popping from the sides of crumbling stone pillars as if part of the lit torches. Maybe Blake even forbade him from talking about it and his little jabs at us were his best attempts at explanation. Oh, Woodrow. You were certainly more pleasant to be with the moment we split from the rest of them.

Was this about control? Was this about asserting dominance? That this was just a shallow example of his authority, and to know where we should stand on the hierarchy he constructed?

I wondered perhaps if there was more to it, perhaps something about what Ealhstan said. Maybe it has something to do with realizing his potential.

Maybe Wilbur had realized his full potential at the last monastery, only it was too late. Blake had wiped his memory and he now must start again.

I pondered this deeply yet again. This time, I stared into the hearth, the sight of it keeping me grounded in the present moment. I did not go into the tunnel of my mind that far.

Perhaps Blake banned Woodrow from helping us in the kitchens and whatever station he wished because it would give him joy? Absurd as it may sound. Then again, Blake was the type of monster to suck joy out of the world, and he must have not wished for his own flock to experience it. Especially if joy led to purpose and fulfillment… and possibly power.

I sucked in a breath and looked at the people beside me. I had not noticed we were near the fireplace itself, staring into the burning logs, until I saw our noses and cheeks turning orange.

Maybe we were destined to do good after all but were corrupted before we realized that. That was a comforting thought. I’d share that idea with Wilbur once we get to the monastery.

If we all realized the full extent of my brother’s powers, could we possibly overthrow Blake? Could we, as one, finally dispel the darkness plaguing the world? Maybe that was why Blake’s powers were the antithesis of theirs. He can cancel them out instantly. Hence, we followed him. Hence, we served him, deluded by his false cause of charity. Instead of fighting him, we simply sped his plans for destruction.

Another stray thought briefly landed: did his powers of oblivion have a wide range? Can he strike us one by one like lightning, or was his rage like the torrent of rain?

I also wondered if Swithin and Knox felt the same as us, but were unable to act of their own accord because Blake had caged their minds and their will.

But then I remembered how Knox held Wilbur down as he tried to save me, and how Swithin caused such carnage upon those hungry thieves—thieves that were normal villagers, once. Villagers like Claude and his parents and his brothers. I imagined Claude bone-thin with a dagger pointing at the throat of many passersby. Would he become that desperate?

I wouldn’t allow that.

I will do my best for Blake to not harm them. Selfishly, I thought: he can harm the rest of the world just not these two.

I pressed the back of my thumbs over my eyelids. I was smiling underneath my arms. Out of Blake and Knox’s gaze, my mind freed itself from its muddled pool. I did so much guesswork today. It was both tiring and rewarding. I’ve always relied on Wilbur’s brains. I’ve always clung to his arms. It was nice using my own brains, for a change.

But when I sighed, it was his arms I leaned onto for support, still. I stretched my legs in front of me, allowing the warmth through my thick robes to soothe my aching legs. To my right, I saw Joan peer at me under my hood.

“You two look so much alike. Is it possible that you two are blood-related? I’ve heard of siblings or cousins joining the same holy calling.” For all her questions, we did not expect that. But I beamed at her as Woodrow chuckled. I liked it when people mistook me for his brother, at least from what they can see under my hood.

“We might as well be,” I answered. “He’s the only family I recognize. Him and sometimes that redhaired one, right there.” I didn’t want to leave Woodrow out, especially now that we needed to be united.

Woodrow appreciated that. He smiled warmly at me, and he was more handsome for it. “How pleasant that is to hear,” Joan murmured. “We all need someone to depend on like that.”

We slurped on the last of the soup and heard soft animal noises outside. Sounds of sleep and nighttime peace. I noticed that they didn’t keep dogs in their farm. I suppose that worked well in our favor; they would have barked themselves tired with Joan and Claude wondering why they were suddenly vicious towards guests. They may distract Knox for a moment, but Blake or Swithin will end them quickly. I would not risk their loyal furry lives. I would have set them free in an instant, Claude and Joan forgive me.

But imagine if there were dogs here. It would not help us keep our secret one bit. They most probably would snarl at the sight of us, and they would probably be pacing back and forth, ears pricked at the disturbance happening on the long road back.