Covenant With Hell by Priscilla Royal

so with gentleness robed in courtesy. There was no hint of grim duty in his gift, nor any trace of disdain. Perhaps that was the reason she suffered a growing affection for him, or maybe it was his vague resemblance to one of her dead cousins, but the attachment was a dangerous flaw in one who must survive on the streets. Pilgrims went back to the towns they left. Kin died. She had made this mistake of attachment with Sister Roysia, and should have learned from the error.
    She scoffed at herself, trying to eradicate the weakness, but this fondness was stubborn and resisted her efforts, retreating to a smaller corner of her heart where it mocked her attempts to banish it. Sliding onto her stomach and burrowing into the dry straw to remain unseen, she tried distracting herself by watching the men who entered and left the pilgrim’s inn.
    This was not an idle pastime. No one living within a finger’s span of death survived without studying the nuances of expression, tone, and actions in those better-fed. And Gracia was a clever student, far more perceptive than her age would suggest. She had survived while others, some older and a few claiming greater wisdom, had died last winter. It was fortunate that she enjoyed observing other mortals. If she missed the games played by children with families that sheltered them, she did not dwell on it.
    For her, the inn was a fine school. As she sat at the entrance to beg, she considered various meanings for the interactions she observed. Then she would choose which one she thought was closest to the truth. When the merchant bent forward and clutched his mazer of wine in conversation with a competitor, was he bluffing fellowship to win a good deal, or was this a meeting of childhood friends?
    When she was proven wrong, she struggled to discover the flaw in her reasoning. Without giving voice to the knowledge, she was well aware that youth’s tender innocence lured Death like a corpse did carrion crow.
    Her stomach growled. It was time to beg for food.
    Scrambling down from the loft, she walked to the inn. The innkeeper tolerated her presence there, allowing her to sit near the door as long as no one complained. She rarely spoke to passersby. That was unnecessary. Her skeletal form and filthy rags were expressive enough. The charitable winced as they tossed something in the direction of her hand. Others held a scented cloth closer to their noses, looked to the other side, and walked past. Occasionally, a man found her presence offensive, and the innkeeper was obliged to chase her away. When she deemed it safe, she returned to the inn.
    As she approached her spot, she noticed a man standing near the entrance. Her eyes were sharp enough to see that his dark clothing was made of fine wool and the needlework was precise and even. Yet he wore no golden chain, bejeweled cross, or rings crafted to catch the light and dazzle the eye. His grayish brown hair was as fine as down, his face neither handsome nor plain. Looking at his well-cobbled boots, she briefly coveted them. A merchant, she decided. He bore no sign of titled rank, but his unmistakable affluence argued against a lowly status.
    Despite being a wealthy man, he was unusually mundane. That intrigued her. Those who strode through crowds, red-faced and with clenched fists, told the world unequivocally what they thought and who they believed they were. Others, bowing their heads to hide the state of their souls shining from their eyes, were equally easy to comprehend, although they hoped otherwise. But this man gazed straight ahead without challenge, exuded neither humility nor pride, and walked with modest purpose.
    I think he has secrets, she concluded.
    Deciding to watch him longer, she edged closer, lowered her gaze to avoid eye contact, and slipped into her usual spot in the dirt by the inn door. It would be interesting to discover what he wished to keep hidden.
    The man did not look away from Gracia as others did. Instead, he smiled at