Chapter 31 The Tannery
The tannery was just as Oliver described, worse, actually. The main room was a low-ceilinged box, beams blackened by years of acid fumes, every board slick with a patina of old grease and mildew. The smell was so strong that Daisy tasted it on her tongue before she even crossed the threshold. She crept through the main hall, past the heaps of discarded shoes and split hides, to the far back where the vats once stood. Now, they were empty, their interiors scabbed over with blackened slime.
In a room off the main, she found her siblings.
The youngest, little Sam, sat on the floor with a scrap of paper, scribbling endless loops that never went anywhere. He looked up when Daisy entered, blinked twice, then grinned so wide his missing tooth showed. He ran to her, wrapped his thin arms around her waist, and burrowed his face into her coat.
Behind him, Rose and Mina huddled near a small, makeshift fire, their knees drawn up, coats pulled tight. Mina was first to speak. "You came back," she whispered, her voice shaky as a fever.
Daisy pulled them close. The hug was awkward; she'd never been a hugging person, and the scales on her arms made it stiffer than usual, but the kids didn't seem to care. Rose cried, wiping her nose on Daisy’s shoulder. For a minute, they just held each other, the world and its dangers locked outside.
Daisy knelt to look at Sam’s paper. He’d drawn a spiral, over and over, filling the page. When he saw her looking, he shrugged. "They said it was magic."
Daisy ruffled his hair. "It is, squirt. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
The smell of burning wool finally reached her, and she turned. Delia was there, hunched over a battered tin kettle, stirring something over the flames. Her hands were red and raw, but her expression was all business.
"You look worse," Delia said, not turning around.
Daisy tried to smile. "You always know how to make a girl feel welcome."
Delia faced her. For a second, her composure cracked, just a flicker of emotion, gone before Daisy could name it. "We heard about the dragon," Delia said. "We saw the sky turn red. You made it out?"
"Mostly," Daisy replied, glancing at her arms.
Delia stepped close, took Daisy’s wrist, and turned it over. She studied the scales, tracing the edges with her thumb. "Does it hurt?"
"Only when I think about it."
Delia nodded, then let go, hands shaking. "You brought them down on all of us, you know. Not just the city. The nobles, the High Magus, even the off-books trackers. They want your blood, Daisy. They want all of ours."
Daisy felt the old anger flare up, but she tamped it down. "I didn’t want any of this. I just wanted Ma to be safe."
Delia’s lips pressed thin. "She’s in the back. It’s not good."
Daisy pushed past, following the flicker of candlelight through a stained curtain. In the smallest room, on a pile of old rags, her mother lay curled up. Maribel Smithson looked shrunken, skin pale and almost see-through, the spiral tattoo on her neck faded to the color of old milk. Each breath rattled, every exhale a struggle.
Daisy knelt beside the makeshift bed. "Ma?"
Her mother’s eyes fluttered open. She focused, then smiled a little. "You found him," Maribel rasped. "The one bound by our blood."
Daisy shivered. "You knew?"
Maribel coughed, a dry, barking sound that doubled her up. When she caught her breath, she reached for Daisy’s hand. "I tried to keep you from it. The city, the curse, the dragon. But you were always meant to find your own way." Her fingers gripped Daisy’s wrist, found the scales, and squeezed. "Does it hurt?"
"Not as much as losing you would," Daisy said, unable to keep her voice steady.
Maribel smiled again, then her gaze slipped, lost in the shadows of the ceiling. "Delia’s been good to us. She could have left. She stayed."
Daisy glanced at Delia, who hovered at the curtain, arms folded tight. She wanted to say something, thanks, an apology, anything, but the words just died.
"You should rest," Daisy said to her mother.
"Not much time left for that," Maribel replied, and this time, the laugh sounded almost like her old self.
Delia cornered Daisy near the fire, out of earshot of the kids. She grabbed Daisy’s arm, turned it palm up, and hissed, "You realize what you’ve done? They’ll never stop hunting us now. Blackwood’s men are in the city. The city guard is scared enough to actually do their jobs. And the trackers…"
Daisy yanked her hand back. "I never asked for the scales. I never wanted the magic. But it’s done now, and I’m going to use it to keep them safe."
Delia glared, but her eyes were rimmed red. "You always think you know best. But you don’t. I got an offer after the mess at the menagerie. A job in the healers’ quarter. Real money, warm beds. I turned it down to stay with them. For you."
Guilt stabbed Daisy harder than any knife. "I… didn’t know."
"Of course you didn’t," Delia spat. "You were too busy being the hero."
The words were meant to hurt. They did.
Before Daisy could answer, a horrible, rattling cough erupted from the back room. Maribel’s voice, gasping for breath. Daisy ran, Delia right behind her.
Maribel writhed on the pallet, a spasm twisting her face. Blood flecked her lips. The spiral on her neck pulsed, faint but visible. Daisy knelt, not knowing what to do, then just did the only thing she could.
She took her mother’s hand, and with the other, she drew the bone knife Oliver had given her and sliced her own palm open, deep enough for the blood to run. She let it drip onto her mother’s chest, watched as the blood pooled and then, almost of its own accord, spun itself into a spiral that matched the tattoo.
Delia cried out, "What are you doing?"
Daisy ignored her. She pressed her bloody hand to her mother’s chest. The magic responded—hot, furious, a river of power she could barely control. The spiral burned bright, then faded, and Daisy felt something shift inside her, a connection forming.
For a second, Maribel breathed easy, her face calm, at peace.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Don’t let them take it from you."
Daisy nodded, tears she couldn’t stop running down her face. Delia put a hand on her shoulder, steadying them both.
And then, the coughing started again, worse, wetter, bloodier.
Daisy gripped her mother’s hand and held on, refusing to let go.