The Good Thief by Hannah Tinti Page B

Medical Salts for Pleasant Dreams. He stared at the label so that he would not have to look at Tom. He knew from Brother Joseph that suicides were not laid to rest in the churchyard. They were buried at the crossroads, in unconsecrated ground, like Brom’s and Ichy’s mother. Their souls were sent to hell, and their ghosts turned into white rabbits that haunted the unmarked grave, startling horses and fooling travelers into taking the wrong path.
     
    Tom’s eyes were shut tight. He wiped his palm back and forth across his forehead, smearing the ink deeper into his skin.
     
    “After that I stopped being a teacher.”
     
    For a few moments they sat in silence. Ren watched Tom for a sign of what might happen next, a curse or a sob, but the schoolteacher simply rubbed his fingertips together, then began making marks across the table, a line of thumbprints, all in a row.
     
    The boy went back to scraping the labels off, and Tom sighed and began to mix together Mother Jones’s Elixir for Misbehaving Children. He used a funnel to fill the bottles with maple syrup, diluted opium, castor oil, and a bit of soured milk, until the consistency was light and sticky, with a tinge of brownness. He poured a tiny bit into a glass and handed it to Ren.
     
    “Bottoms up.”
     
    The boy sniffed the liquid, then stuck his tongue in. It tasted sweet and bitter at once.
     
    “You’ll have to be more convincing than that.”
     
    Ren lifted the glass. The medicine took its time, sliding slowly along the edge of the cup like molasses. Only a drop fell into his mouth. It tasted terrible, but he swallowed it down. “Now what?”
     
    “Now,” said Tom, “you have to be good.”
     
     
     
    The next morning when Tom and Ren arrived at the shearing, it was well under way, the fields still damp with dew. Nearly one hundred men, women, and children were talking and milling about and inspecting each other’s herds. Tables with food and drink were set up on the grass. Ribbons of different colors were tied to the trees and fence railings.
     
    Ren looked over the people gathered and searched for Benjamin. He’d left before dawn, taking the wooden case with him.
     
    “Remember,” Benjamin had said just before he closed the door, “you aren’t supposed to know who I am.”
     
    Ren’s boots were soaked through from crossing the field. The wet leather rubbed against his bare ankles. Tom stopped just outside the crowd, reached down, and took Ren’s hand. It was strange, pretending to be father and son. They were both ill-suited for their roles. Ren’s hair stuck out in all directions and the schoolteacher reeked of whiskey. Tom tightened his grip, and Ren looked up at him.
     
    “No heroics,” he said. “If something goes wrong, I want you to run.”
     
    Ren nodded, and the man and the boy stepped into the crowd. They passed the tables piled high with scones and muffins, a side of ham, a barrel of cider, and a smattering of cakes covered in sugar. As they moved closer to the shearing, the smell changed to that of fresh manure and the heavy scent of wool.
     
    The farmers took the sheep one at a time and tossed them onto their backs, then went to work with the hand clippers, starting at the head and making their way across the spine and down the sides, until the animal’s coat came off in a single matted piece. The coat was then set apart, weighed, and examined, until its price was decided.
     
    Bits of white filament floated in the air. The fingers of the shearers shone with lanolin, their leather aprons stained with it. As the day wore on and the sun grew high, a few took off their shirts and worked bare-chested, suspenders at their waists and kerchiefs tied around their necks.
     
    The sheep waited behind a fence, watched others of their herd being shorn, and bleated. One by one the sheep were taken, thrown on their sides, and expertly cut. Afterward they looked naked and stunned. When they were released, the animals shook their