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Authors: Suzanne Selfors
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listening.”
Bartholomew smiled. “You remember the guy with the missing eye, the one you fought? The win that got you that pretty prize?” He pointed to my belt.
“Course I remember. It was only last night. I didn’t get punched in the head.”
“He said he was leaving, right? You remember him saying he was leaving?”
“Yeah. He said he was just passing through.”
Bartholomew rubbed his hands together. “Well, he never did leave. He’s still here and he wants to fight you again. Surgeon stitched up his forehead good and tight and he says he’s ready. Tonight.”
“Tonight?” Surprised by this news, I took a long breath. I’d hit the one-eyed man hard. He was a big lout, a laborer of some kind so his thick arms were used to lifting and hauling, not throwing swift punches. My hand still ached. “I already fought him,” I said, heading for my horse. “It’s done.”
“But I’m collecting the wagers,” Bartholomew said, keeping close to my heels. His pockets jiggled, heavy with coin.
“I never agreed to the fight. The wagers aren’t my problem.” I untied Father’s horse.
“Listen to me, Owen Oak.” Bartholomew grabbed the reins. “The wagers are mostly
against
you.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why would they be against me? I beat him. I won.”
“Sure, you beat him. You won. But he’s bigger than you. And he’s mad this time. Real mad. He’s not the kind to take to losing.” Bartholomew held his tongue for a moment, watching while I considered this news. Then, knowing exactly how to goad his best fighter, Bartholomew stood on tiptoe and said, “He says it was luck that brought your victory. Said you don’t deserve that belt. Said you need to be taught a lesson.”
I clenched my jaw. Father had told me not to fight until spring had passed so as not to bring more sorrow to my mother. Spring days might have been blessed by gentle sunshine, but they were also tainted by the memory of a daughter’s death.
“You’ll fight him, won’t you?” Bartholomew asked. “You can’t let him say you won because of luck. You can’t let him say you don’t deserve that belt. You’ll fight him? Tonight?”
Even knowing that Bartholomew only wanted to make a profit, I couldn’t ignore the challenge. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll fight him.”
Chapter Ten
I worked the shop all afternoon. Mother never joined me, staying home to tend to the dirt-scratcher girl. Between filling crocks with butter and jugs with milk, I wondered how the girl was doing. But honestly, I thought more about the upcoming fight. It didn’t help that Bartholomew kept stopping by, reminding me of the event, his irises pulsating with greed. I wanted to get it over with, wanted to defend my reputation. I’d avoid any hits to my face and Mother would be none the wiser.
So right after closing, I stood barefoot on the dirt floor. My vest, shirt, and boots lay outside the fight circle. But I kept the snakeskin belt around my britches, a reminder of my previous victory. The circle had been raked and its perimeter marked by a thick line of flour—an expensive boundary, but cost was no issue to Bartholomew Raisin. He offered the best barefist fights in all the Wanderlands. His building had been erected solely for that purpose.
The crowd grew by the minute as men pushed inside the building. No women, though. It wasn’t that women weren’t allowed, but if one should happen to step inside, she would risk irreparable damage to her reputation. But Bartholomew had long ago discovered that many of the merchants’ wives loved to gamble, so he’d visit them and take their wagers in secret.
It was normal for my stomach to tighten just before a fight. No win was guaranteed. A scrawny man could surprise everyone with unexpected strength. A short man could possess an unnerving ability to soar through the air. But landing face-first in the dirt wasn’t something the one-eyed man had expected. And now he was furious enough to
Bartholomew smiled. “You remember the guy with the missing eye, the one you fought? The win that got you that pretty prize?” He pointed to my belt.
“Course I remember. It was only last night. I didn’t get punched in the head.”
“He said he was leaving, right? You remember him saying he was leaving?”
“Yeah. He said he was just passing through.”
Bartholomew rubbed his hands together. “Well, he never did leave. He’s still here and he wants to fight you again. Surgeon stitched up his forehead good and tight and he says he’s ready. Tonight.”
“Tonight?” Surprised by this news, I took a long breath. I’d hit the one-eyed man hard. He was a big lout, a laborer of some kind so his thick arms were used to lifting and hauling, not throwing swift punches. My hand still ached. “I already fought him,” I said, heading for my horse. “It’s done.”
“But I’m collecting the wagers,” Bartholomew said, keeping close to my heels. His pockets jiggled, heavy with coin.
“I never agreed to the fight. The wagers aren’t my problem.” I untied Father’s horse.
“Listen to me, Owen Oak.” Bartholomew grabbed the reins. “The wagers are mostly
against
you.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why would they be against me? I beat him. I won.”
“Sure, you beat him. You won. But he’s bigger than you. And he’s mad this time. Real mad. He’s not the kind to take to losing.” Bartholomew held his tongue for a moment, watching while I considered this news. Then, knowing exactly how to goad his best fighter, Bartholomew stood on tiptoe and said, “He says it was luck that brought your victory. Said you don’t deserve that belt. Said you need to be taught a lesson.”
I clenched my jaw. Father had told me not to fight until spring had passed so as not to bring more sorrow to my mother. Spring days might have been blessed by gentle sunshine, but they were also tainted by the memory of a daughter’s death.
“You’ll fight him, won’t you?” Bartholomew asked. “You can’t let him say you won because of luck. You can’t let him say you don’t deserve that belt. You’ll fight him? Tonight?”
Even knowing that Bartholomew only wanted to make a profit, I couldn’t ignore the challenge. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll fight him.”
Chapter Ten
I worked the shop all afternoon. Mother never joined me, staying home to tend to the dirt-scratcher girl. Between filling crocks with butter and jugs with milk, I wondered how the girl was doing. But honestly, I thought more about the upcoming fight. It didn’t help that Bartholomew kept stopping by, reminding me of the event, his irises pulsating with greed. I wanted to get it over with, wanted to defend my reputation. I’d avoid any hits to my face and Mother would be none the wiser.
So right after closing, I stood barefoot on the dirt floor. My vest, shirt, and boots lay outside the fight circle. But I kept the snakeskin belt around my britches, a reminder of my previous victory. The circle had been raked and its perimeter marked by a thick line of flour—an expensive boundary, but cost was no issue to Bartholomew Raisin. He offered the best barefist fights in all the Wanderlands. His building had been erected solely for that purpose.
The crowd grew by the minute as men pushed inside the building. No women, though. It wasn’t that women weren’t allowed, but if one should happen to step inside, she would risk irreparable damage to her reputation. But Bartholomew had long ago discovered that many of the merchants’ wives loved to gamble, so he’d visit them and take their wagers in secret.
It was normal for my stomach to tighten just before a fight. No win was guaranteed. A scrawny man could surprise everyone with unexpected strength. A short man could possess an unnerving ability to soar through the air. But landing face-first in the dirt wasn’t something the one-eyed man had expected. And now he was furious enough to
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