Lena Birch's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

Three days later, Lena woke to rain. She lay still and listened to it drum the roof. Then she thought of the cellar. Damp stone. Old coal. Water running down the walls. She sat up. Her blade lay wrapped on that wet floor. Twelve years buried, and it never rusted. But that forest soil was dry. The cellar was not. Steel forgets nothing. It drinks damp and dies of it. She pulled on her apron and went. The village was gray and empty in the rain. Behind the smithy she found the low door and hauled it open. Cold, wet air rose to meet her. She climbed down and dragged the crates aside. The cloth bundle was dark with moisture. She unwrapped it fast. The blade glinted, still clean, but beads of water sat along the flat. A thin orange bloom crept near the guard. Another week here would eat it through. She wiped the steel with her sleeve. That was not enough. Wet air would return the moment she left. The blade needed a dry place, off the ground, hidden. She could not carry it home in daylight. She could not leave it here to rot. A scrape sounded above her. Finn's helmet leaned into the doorway. "You can't keep coming here," he hissed. "The captain counts my trips." Then he saw the rust and went quiet. "Is it ruined?" "Not yet." She held the blade up so he saw the orange stain. "But this floor will finish it. I need somewhere dry. Today." Finn chewed his lip. He glanced back at the rain, then down at her. "My aunt's got a couch by her stove," he said. "Old striped thing. Two cats sleep in it all day. Nobody moves them. Nobody looks under them." He talked faster now. "The stove's always lit. It's the driest spot in the village." Lena weighed it. A stranger's house. A boy's word. But dry heat would save the steel, and no one searches a napping cat. "Show me," she said. They waited for dark. Finn led her through back lanes to a small warm room. An overstuffed daybed sat by the stove, draped in a faded striped cover. Two orange cats lay curled in its folds. One lifted its head, blinked, and settled again. Lena knelt. She slid the wrapped blade deep beneath the cushions, flat against the wooden frame, where the stove's heat reached. The cats never stirred. She stood. The steel was safe from rot now. But she had moved it into another house, under another roof she did not own. Finn watched her from the door, holding his shield. "Your aunt," Lena said. "Does she know you come here?" Finn's grin faded. "She's asleep. She always sleeps." He looked at the couch, then at Lena. "But she wakes sometimes. And she cleans under the cushions."