Reign by Lily Blake Page A

outside.
    Almost…
    â€œI am faster than anyone!” Enzo yelled, pushing his horse in front of Jacques’s. “I can steal and get far away from here! No one will be able to catch me! No one!”
    Claude shared a worried look with his mother. He tried to ignore it, instead collecting the baked rolls and putting them in a basket. A man had been caught in town just yesterday with pewter candlesticks. He’d stolen them from a nearby shrine, an offense punishable by death. Now the townspeople were all gathered in the square. They’d been there for hours, excitedly awaiting his execution. Even though he was nearly seventeen, Claude couldn’t stand the thought of it. The one time his father had made him go to an execution, he’d snuck away from the crowd as soon as the man’s head fell from the block, the wood stump covered with thick blood. He’d run behind the silversmith’s shed and vomited until there was nothing left inside him.
    â€œIf you could just cut that last bit of goat’s meat,” his mother said, gesturing to the slab of pink flesh on the wood counter. It still had some of the skin on it.
    Claude went to it, not daring to breathe in the heavy scent of the meat. He held the knife above it, wanting to cut into it but unable to stop the queasiness from coming. He could still hear the people in the square. Their cheers had already risen and fallen just moments before. The man, whoever he was, was dead.
    Claude closed his eyes as he made the first cut. He was nearly through the meat when the front door to the cottage banged open. His father came in, his skin covered with sweat. As soon as he saw Claude standing there, hunched over the counter, he sneered. “Boy, what did I tell you?” he said. “That’s women’s work. Don’t let me catch you in the kitchen again.”
    Claude wiped his hands on the front of his pants, then joined his brothers on the floor. He pretended to be interested in their toys, but his shoulders were tense. He knew Enzo and Jacques felt it too. They were quieter whenever their father came in, their voices barely a whisper.
    Their father lumbered around the kitchen, opening cabinets and slamming them closed. He was a giant of a man, with broad shoulders and huge, meaty hands. His hair was thick and greasy, and he always smelled like turned wine. He went to the bottom cupboards and finally found his bottle of rum. He took a few quick swigs, then dropped his hood on the kitchen table.
    It was so hard to look away from it. It was a burlap sack speckled with dark brown spots. There were holes cut for the eyes and a thin string that ran around the neck to keep it from falling off. It’s a sick joke , Claude thought. All the townspeople knew his father was the executioner, didn’t they? Why pretend? His father always spent a great deal on the necessities—chickens, rice, cloth… rum—the week after an execution. He used all the same coins that he had just been paid. And even if he didn’t, he was still so distinctive. That uneven, half-drunk gait so obviously him . How could anyone mistake the executioner for someone else?
    â€œWhat are you looking at, boy?” his father asked, catching him staring at the hood. “It scares you, doesn’t it?”
    â€œArthur, please, leave him alone,” Claude’s mother said softly. “Please.”
    His father took two more swigs from the rum bottle, his gaze fixed on his oldest son. “Always protecting him…”
    Claude knew what was coming, and he braced himself as if his father were already upon him. He grabbed Enzo’s hand and led him toward the back door. “Go play out back,” he said, pushing Jacques’s shoulder. “Go on, now. Don’t come back in until I say.”
    The littlest boys weren’t even out the door when his father started. “You know what the townspeople think of you?” he asked.