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Every time – every goddamn time – Hayward comes back to the abbey for a visit after a long stint in the field, he discovers that there's some weird new fashion trend that has swept the community. He wouldn't really care, but he can't shake the feeling that every time they come up with some new getup, he looks even more like a square by comparison, showing up to security committee meetings in civilian clothing.
First it had been the fishhook piercings – that had at least kind of made sense, apparently they were traditional with the Parish, Carpenter's grandma had about twenty in every picture he'd ever seen of her. A couple of years back, it was some kind of henna tattoo across the face, like a kind of semi-permanent warpaint – he'd gotten a long lecture from Molly for calling it that, and had been told quietly by Paige that he really ought to apologize, because he came off as narrow-minded. This time, it's a parochial haircut that involves shaving the sides of the head and twisting the long hair remaining into a rope braid. Every last brother, sister, and sibling on the boat over had been wearing their hair that way. The last time he'd made the crossing, nobody had done anything special with their hair at all. Hayward decided that, given his track record, he'd better not even ask.
For today's festivities, Carpenter is sporting all three, and the overall effect is a little startling, so Hayward assumes that's what she's talking about when Paige says, "Is that really what you're wearing to the party?"
Hayward and Faulkner, who had been ready to leave for said party for the last half-hour, exchange glances over their domino game. Hayward hadn't exactly had a perfect marriage, but even he had known that questioning your wife's fashion sense before a family get-together was extremely treacherous ground. Either Paige is being brave to the point of foolhardiness, or it's one of those things that's different for women couples.
"What, pray tell, is wrong with my outfit?" Carpenter asks, vexed.
"Well, for one thing, you look like a revolutionary Delta warlord with that haircut," Hayward says. "The only thing missing is a beret and some bloodstains from your most recent sacrificial victim."
"Hosanna, the river rises," Faulkner says dryly, and plays his last tile, handily winning the round, and Hayward's not 100% sure he's joking.
"I'm not sure what rock you've been living under, smartass," Carpenter says, "but I was duly elected to my office, and I'm not in the business of making blood sacrifices."
Hayward holds up his hands. "Look, all I'm saying is, when an elected leader is going around in camo fatigues, it raises questions about their commitment to civilian control of the security apparatus and the flourishing of civil society."
"These pants are hunting camo," Carpenter says scornfully, like any fool should know that. "Not army-issue."
"Her hair is fine," Paige says, who would, of course, think that, given that Paige herself has braided her hair so that it resembled the style without the commitment of cropping the sides. Somehow she managed to make it look sophisticated, even a little bit elegant, as opposed to Carpenter, who always managed to look a little ragged, even at important ceremonies where she had to give speeches and important diplomatic events where she had people to help her with her hair and wardrobe. "But you can't wear that shirt to a party, it's got mud on the sleeves."
Carpenter looks down at the cuffs of her ratty hunter-orange sweatshirt and does a double-take, appearing to have noticed the less-than-presentable state of her clothes for the first time. "Tch," she says, and tries, unsuccessfully, to dab the grime away on her pants leg. Paige raises an eyebrow. Carpenter sighs dramatically. "Fine, I'll change, but we're going to be late."
"Thank you," Paige calls after Carpenter as she retreats to her room, and to her credit, almost sounds like she means it.
Faulkner can't really cross his arms anymore, on account of being half-hallowed and missing one of two, but his wings hunch up behind him in a distinctly put-upon fashion. "You'd better resign yourself to this while you're staying with us, Hayward," he says "Nobody even expects the three of us to be punctual anymore."
When Hayward had gotten word that he was being called back from the field for R&R, he was bewildered. When he had found out it would be protracted and that it was mandatory, he was exasperated and more than a little indignant. Technically, if asked, Hayward would maintain that he still is indignant at being taken out of commission or more than a couple days, but he does have to admit, making a career for himself in reconnoitering means he misses a lot back here at the abbey – all the little day-to-day things about the lives of the people he's reluctantly started to admit to himself that he considers family. It mean something to know these little details in their domestic life. Who keeps track of the laundry, which household is never on time, who clobbers everyone else at domino games. He never really thought that kind of stuff was for him, but he can't deny that it's kind of nice.
Carpenter reappears in the living room in a flannel shirtjacket and a truculent expression. "Better?" she asks, holding out her sleeves for general inspection.
"Perfect," Paige says, and drops a quick kiss on her temple, which absolutely would not have worked if Hayward had tried to pull that shit on his ex-wife after criticizing her outfit, but seems to have the intended effect on Carpenter, who glowers considerably less than usual on the walk over, and even goes so far as to hold Paige's hand for part of the way.
They receive an exuberant welcome when they reach the Wood family home. Faulkner is immediately whisked away to preside over last-minute finishing touches on the feast-day altarpiece and Carpenter's second cousins (flannel-clad to a man) want her to come check out the new winch on their trawling boat, so Paige and Hayward mingle and make small talk until Paige is drafted to serve as a line judge for the volleyball game in the yard. After nearly getting hit in the head by a stray return, Hayward decides to take the opportunity to look around on his own and check out the altar, given that he's never before had the chance.
Hayward has celebrated the Feast of the Fiddler Crab with Carpenter's family and the Woods before, the last couple years, but this is the first time he's been invited to the ceremonies. The definition of martyrdom isn't overly strict, he notices. There's a few portraits of Wood elders who Hayward knows for a fact died in knife-fights with rival moonshiners, nothing to do with the church. He figures that sociologically speaking, it's probably more of a chance for people to remember their loved ones than it is to encourage members of the faith to take up arms in the holy war against its enemies.
The Parish was always big on self-sacrifice, he'd noticed, but there had to be strategic value to it, or else it was just wasteful. Katabasian Fleck, Taylor had explained to him, was commemorated for his sacrifice with the feast not because he'd laid down his life for the church, but because he'd given it the means to go on.
"We say my flesh for your teeth, but it's not so much the 'my flesh' as it is the 'for your teeth'," she'd told him as they'd shredded crab meat for the soup the day before. "People forget that. Don't you go twisting it up when you're out there in hostile territory." Then she'd tousled his hair with a rough, calloused hand, like she did to her own sons, and Hayward had needed to excuse himself in order to get a grip before he started weeping right there in the kitchen.
The house is warm and sticky with people – the guest list included Carpenter's household (tardy, as predicted), the Woods, their spouses and children, Smith's drinking buddies, family friends of Taylor's, Molly's coworkers, and for some inexplicable reason, Baker, who has a pipe in her hand and is getting stoned out of her mind in honor of the fallen, plus the fact that she has tomorrow off work. Even when Taylor, as matriarch, is ready to start the ceremony and growing more impatient by the second, people are still chatting in the kitchen and smoking on the porch, and it takes for fucking ever to herd everyone inside.
When she finally manages it, Hayward finds out the ritual of the remembrance of the martyrs entails speaking aloud the names of the deceased, the date they passed, and the next of kin cracking a crab leg to set in front of their portraits. Like a lot of rituals the Parish of Tides and Flesh observes, it's a little informal, with people milling around and having side conversations with drinks in their hands, but nonetheless, there's an air of redneck reverence to the whole affair. It's interesting, even if it is, as expected, pretty weird.
With all that going on, they're four long-dead Wood relatives into the ritual before Hayward realizes that Carpenter is nowhere to be found.
When Taylor breaks from her recitation to light a few candles and lead the congregation in an 'our Father in the Water' and an 'Ave Nupta, Talassius' in five-part harmony, Hayward seizes the opportunity to sidle over to where Faulkner is sitting, with Paige at his shoulder.
"I think we're missing someone," Hayward murmurs.
"We noticed," Faulkner says, his voice low and tight. "Not good. I haven't seen Carpenter since we got here. We were hoping she was with you."
"No such luck," Hayward says.
"Carpenter's relatives are coming up next," Faulkner says.
"Right," Paige says quietly, smoothing her palms against her dress. "That's probably why she's made herself scarce."
"Somebody needs to speak up for them, or Carpenter'll be missed," Faulkner says.
"She'll be missed either way," Hayward says. "But it'll raise fewer eyebrows if one of you steps up to speak for the Glass martyrs."
Faulkner and Paige exchange looks. "I don't know if that's such a good idea. Carpenter wouldn't like it one bit," Faulkner says.
"Why not?" Hayward asks. "She's made it perfectly clear that the two of you are her kin, by every measure."
"She can be territorial when it comes to the Glass side of the family, and me claiming them," Faulkner says. "I guess I may have overstepped, a few times, when I was younger. I don't think she's forgiven me for it."
"I'm gonna go look for her," Paige says. "She's probably upset."
Their little huddle is starting to attract curious looks from Smith, who stepped away from the ceremony to soothe his two-year-old's tantrum. Their time is running out if they want to deal with this quietly.
"How about both of you go up for the Glass family?" Hayward says. "It'll look less presumptuous if it's not just Faulkner. I'll go find Carpenter and make sure she's all right."
Faulkner shrugs. "That might be as good a plan as could be hoped for," he says, and starts the cumbersome process of getting to his feet.
Paige catches Hayward by the elbow. "Check the outhouse, the stillhouse, and the boathouse, in that order," she says. "And thanks."
"It's nothing," Hayward says, and she turns to help Faulkner up to the front of the room.
He slips out the back door and goes down Paige's hit list. There's somebody puking in the outhouse – sick as a dog off corn liquor, by the sound of it – but it isn't Carpenter and he waves Hayward off, so that'll have to wait. The stillhouse is empty too, and, thankfully, undisturbed, so that just leaves the boathouse.
Hayward books it down the ramshackle wooden steps that lead to the waterfront. It's dusk, and the sun has almost finished going down. He's in the middle of wishing he thought to bring a flashlight – the boathouse isn't wired – when he spots the glow of a lit cigar and a hunched silhouette dark against the wine-colored waves at the end of the pier.
"Those things will give you cancer," Hayward comments as he sidles up to where Carpenter is sitting, legs dangling off the end of the dock. "Homegrown or not. There's been studies and things."
"But officer, what kind of revolutionary Delta warlord would I be without the stub of a cigar between my teeth?" Carpenter replies without looking at him.
She does that sometimes, calling him 'officer'. Not often, but especially when she's worse for the drink, or high, or a little of both. He doesn't quite know if it's affection – an ironic sort of honorific in recognition for how much he's changed over the years – or sincere contempt for when she thinks he's still acting like a cop. More than likely it's just some little power play that she gets a kick out of.
This is the most sober she's ever called him that, though, at least since he started working for her, and that doesn't bode well. In fact, he's pretty sure it's not good for either of them that she does it at all, and it's probably even worse that he hasn't told her to knock it off. And if she's in a mood where she's calling him ‘officer', the chances of Hayward getting Carpenter back to the house quickly and quietly are less than zero, so he decides his new mission success criteria will be getting Carpenter back to the house without either of them crying or getting punched in the face.
"Look, I shouldn't have said that earlier. About your haircut. It was uncalled for."
"Don't apologize. Suits me fine. Kinda like it," Carpenter says. "Might as well lean into it."
"C'mon."
"Really, I am."
"Shi-it. Never gonna let me live that one down as long as you're still breathing, are you?" Hayward asks. He takes a seat by the mooring post a pace or two away from her. Paige or maybe even Faulkner would sit down next to her, but he figures that Carpenter wouldn't appreciate him encroaching on her personal space, so he's going to have to do this the Hayward way: 1) dissembling, and 2) manipulation. Having an opportunity to tell him he'd been an asshole had never once failed to cheer Carpenter up.
She lets out a slight scoff. "From the sound of it, these cigars will make sure your longsuffering comes to an end a far sight sooner," Carpenter says. "No matter. Never wanted to get too old anyway."
Hayward winces a little at that, internally, but he tries not to let it show on his face. "It has its charms, old age," Hayward says lightly.
"Hmm." Carpenter's not convinced.
"Plus, if you smoke too many of these things, you'll never get to grow old with Paige, which'll be a damn shame, because you can already tell she's gonna be a deluxe cougar."
It's a gamble, him commenting on Paige's looks. Carpenter is fiercely private about her love life, and a large part of her queer identity has always been wrapped up in a desire for the least possible degree of scrutiny of her sexuality and relationships. But talking shit about a sensitive subject is also a surefire way of getting Carpenter riled at him, instead of morosely sulking and brooding over her own mortality. Which could only be a positive.
That earns him a faint chuckle. "Nice try," she says. "I see what you're doing, though."
"Is it working? Because I can try harder," Hayward says. "I could make a bunch more off-color comments about your wife. I'm selfless like that."
Carpenter takes a long, slow drag on the cigar. Hayward looks out over the river to give himself somewhere else to focus his attention, as to not watch her blow smoke out across the velvety night like some kind of creep. He contemplates, not for the first time in recent memory, how cosmically unfair it is that Carpenter is so magnetically, jarringly attractive. It doesn't make any sense. It's not like she's objectively that good-looking – you couldn't even really call her pretty. Hayward usually likes put-together blonds. His type isn't normally rawboned brunettes whose wives are forced to veto their attempts to wear camo and safety orange to a family function.
It's not romantic, or sexual – or at least, if it is, it isn't just that. He's not really sure what it is, except that it has to do with the weary self-assuredness in the set of Carpenter's ropy shoulders, the tenacity with which she carries herself, how she lets the world know, on no uncertain terms, that she wasn't born to kneel, and she won't take shit from anyone, up to and including the gods. Her charisma is quite frankly a little overwhelming to Hayward one-on-one sometimes. It's marginally easier to deal with when he's not looking at her directly.
(Does everybody just go about their day like this when Carpenter's around? She can't possibly have this effect on everyone, or they'd never get anything done around here. But on the other hand, how could anyone not see what Hayward sees when he looks at her? You'd have to be blind, and even then-)
"She's not my wife," Carpenter says.
"What?"
"Back at the magistrate's office in Nesh, the vow I swore to Paige – I pledged her my kinship and my loyalty. Not my name and my troth."
Carpenter is forever using weird, archaic words Hayward doesn't understand and on more than one occasion, has been forced to later look up in the dictionary in the dusty bookshelf in the prayer-house that serves as the town library. Given that it's an open secret that Paige and Carpenter aren't exclusive, it's a safe bet that in this context, 'troth' is Lower Delta for 'sexual monogamy.' Before he can fully process the implications of this piece of information, Carpenter continues. "We took each other as partners. Not brides."
"I see," Hayward says. "So, what you're saying is, your wife is single?"
Carpenter laughs at that: a real, honest laugh. "Little more complicated than that, I reckon."
"She and Faulkner are back at the house right now breaking crab legs for your dead brother and parents and grandma," Hayward says. "Talk about complicated."
Carpenter raises an eyebrow. "They're doing it together, then?" Hayward nods. "That's good. Wouldn't have felt right about Faulkner making the offering alone, but I'm sure it means something to him, claiming their portraits."
"You do know that his whole thing with your Glass relatives is that Faulkner loves you like a sister, and he's insecure as hell about it?" Hayward asks. "He's not trying to usurp you from their legacy, or whatever it looks like to you. He loves you first, and them only by extension. All he wants is for you not to hold him at arm's length when it comes to your blood relations, because then he feels like there's some level on which you'll never really be family to him."
"I know that," Carpenter says. "By now, at least, even if I didn't at first. I'm just – I'm not ready to talk to him about it."
"There's always next year."
"Bait on hook," Carpenter says. She slides a hand down her face. "I didn't even think about that, but if I don't lay the sacrifices for the Glass martyrs next year? Scandal. This time around I can just say I wanted a bit of air, or something. Any year after this, it'll be a whole thing."
"Would that be the end of the world?" Hayward asks. "I'm sure everybody would understand if it was too much."
"Maybe," Carpenter says skeptically. "People expect certain things from their Katabasians."
That might be true, and yet- "It might do you some good to participate in the ceremony, Carpenter. That's what these rituals are for, giving us some closure, even if we don't feel ready for it. Especially then, even."
"I didn't get a funeral for either of them," Carpenter says quietly. "Nana Glass, or Em. I used to observe the remembrance of the martyrs for Fiddler Crab season in the seminary with Mason presiding, of course. Gods, but I hated it, by the end, being trotted out for the ritual. 'Come, everyone gather 'round and see the one Glass who isn't dead lead the prayer. If she's not complaining, what right do you have?' Absolutely dire. Couldn't volunteer fast enough for a pilgrimage in Dwindlings. Nobody else wanted to work them. That's why I got paired with Faulkner in the first place, if you can believe it. Slim pickings in field agents over the holidays." She takes another pull on the cigar. "Drown me and drag me."
"You don't have to do it now," Hayward says. "Hell, you could schedule a field meeting with me on the mainland every year on Fiddle Crab Eve for all I care. Gods know I don't observe." It's been nice, these last couple years, that speck of normalcy and holiday tradition with the Woods, even though the feast isn't something he grew up with, and it doesn't mean much to him culturally or spiritually. But he'd give it up in a heartbeat if it made Carpenter's life one iota easier.
"No, you were right before," Carpenter says. "They're gone, and that's all there is to it. But it might do me some good to remember them. Here, with the Woods, my family, and you – that's how I'd want them to be remembered." Something in Hayward's chest does an uncomfortable flip-flop at the 'and you.' He has no idea what Carpenter means by that and he's not brave enough to ask, but he files it away for closer inspection all the same.
This is getting into dangerous territory. Hayward decides it's time to seek firmer footing. "Hey, Katabasian," Hayward says. "Got a question for you."
Carpenter sits up a little straighter at the use of her title, almost unconsciously. "Let's hear it."
"What does 'ave nupta talacious' mean?"
"'Talassius,'" Carpenter says, correcting his pronunciation. "It means 'hail and well-married, O Promised Bride,' in the oldest tongue. It's an encomium of praise to our first prophet and saint."
It's times like these, when she starts talking with her hands, and her eyes light up at the chance to teach someone something of substance about her faith, that he wonders how he ever thought that Carpenter might actually leave the church. How she ever thought that she might actually leave the church.
(It's not really a question. He knows how they thought it was a possibility, and why. It's just hard to credit that Carpenter leaving all this behind was at one point on the table.)
"The prayer's had a resurgence in popularity these last few years. Mason and Poole hardly ever instructed us in it, but I used to say it twice a week with my grandmother." She ashes the cigar against the dock. "Point of interest – it used to be a prayer just for women. But we've egalitarianized it, here in Reclaimed Silt Territories. A sign of times."
Carpenter is a devotee of the Promised Bride, Hayward knows. She keeps a small shrine to her in her house, which is unobtrusively tucked away in a corner of the hallway, far away from the much larger household shrine to the Trawler-man and his sacred river by the doorway, where Faulkner is habitually found and Carpenter puts in only a token appearance to keep the peace. It's the Bride's prayer-marks which she wears in faded brown ink splashed across her forehead and cheekbones.
The fact that she's willing to share this information about her faith's esoterica with him, a nonbeliever – that she volunteers it – feels personal, even intimate. "Are you opposed to that?" Hayward asks. "Men petitioning the Bride?"
"No, not at all," Carpenter says. "It's a good thing, I think. We'd all be better for it if we tried to be more like her, if you ask me." It doesn't seem to occur to her that Hayward is asking her, that anyone would seek out her thoughts on matters of theology. Years into her administration, she still seems surprised that anybody values her opinion on these kinds of things.
Better than the alternative, Hayward figures. Given the trouble they've had in the past with Carpenter's predecessors, the children of the water seem to have come to appreciate the value of unpracticed humility in their leaders.
"I used to pray that the Trawler-man would make me just like the Bride, when I was a child," she says idly. "Towering, monstrous, and fearless. Do you think he'd take me up on it, if I asked him now?"
Shit. That's really not good. "I think," he says cautiously, "that it's a bad idea to test your gods, because they might give you what you ask for."
Carpenter rolls her eyes. "Bit tired, that platitude, isn't it?"
"I don't mean it in a general sense," Hayward says. "I mean to say that you, in particular, seem to get what you ask for from your god more often than the rest of us. Not always in the way you wanted it."
"Isn't that the truth." Carpenter sighs and looks back over the water. "I asked Paige if she wanted to be my god once."
Hayward's grateful that Carpenter's attention is elsewhere when his jaw drops. "Beg pardon?"
"We discussed our vows ahead of time," she says. "It's all very forthright and negotiated with the civil ceremonies over there in Nesh. No surprises at the altar, they're sensible that way – more than we are here, when you think about it. Well. I offered her my loyalty and my kinship and my household and my affection, and she said yes to all of those. I tried to give her my worship and my reverence, too. But she turned me down."
She sounds like she's still a little bitter about the whole thing, and somehow Hayward doesn't think Carpenter is speaking in metaphor, exaggerating in the way of lovers, when she says she offered to revere Paige. It's a little terrifying to imagine what would have become of either of them if Paige had enough hubris to say yes.
"Considering what happens to your gods, Carpenter, turning you down might have been a smart move on Paige's part." Maybe she only made the offer because she knew Paige would refuse. He couldn't imagine Carpenter making a similar offer to Faulkner, though she loves Faulkner just as much, and Faulkner wouldn't think twice about taking her up on it.
Funny, wasn't it, how Carpenter would only offer total surrender to someone who she knew wouldn't take it, and refrained from giving it to those – like Faulkner, or the Trawler-man – who wanted it but couldn't be trusted with it. Maybe anyone, mortal or divine, who wants absolute allegiance or tireless devotion from another person shouldn't be trusted with it. Maybe knowing that hard truth about the world as keenly as Carpenter knows it, as deep as her marrow and as close as her breath, is what keeps Carpenter from losing herself when she loves something, or somebody. That has to be the reason why he himself is capable of investing so much devotion into her, after all, because Hayward knows she'll never really return it in kind, at least not without a kind of transformation that renders it largely nontoxic for regular consumption. Her armor – her boundaries, her remoteness – that's what makes it safe for him to love her.
Pushing the limits is what keeps it interesting, though. "Lotta good stuff in those vows. You must really like that girl. What did Paige offer you in return?" Hayward asks.
Carpenter looks back at him, entertained. "I'm not at liberty to say. It's private."
"All that shit you just told me isn't private?" Hayward asks.
"That's different," Carpenter says. "The contents of my vows are mine to divulge as I see fit."
"Sure, but that's not the same as saying they're not private," Hayward says. "I'm still trying to recover psychologically from you using the word 'troth' in a sentence."
"Can I ask you about something personal, Hayward?" Carpenter asks. "I doubt you're eager to talk about it, but I consider it a matter of duty as your handler to at least put the question to you."
"Uh, okay?" he says, wrong-footed. "Go ahead."
"When you came out here in the first place, three years ago – you had no backup, and from what I can gather, no exit plan. How did you think it was going to end?" Hayward doesn't like where this is going. He'd kind of hoped he had gotten away clean with that whole bleak chapter of his life, in the intervening years, but apparently Carpenter is smarter than that. "There's no easy way to say this, so I'll just say it: were you trying-"
He holds up a hand to stop her from finishing that sentence. "I'm doing better now," he says. "A hell of a lot better. But you're not wrong. I wasn't in a good place back then."
"And now?" Carpenter asks. Her voice is intolerably gentle. "Anything you want to tell me?"
"Like I said." Hayward crosses his arms and glares out at the sunset. "A hell of a lot better."
"You know, it'd be a lot easier to take you at your word if you could look me in the face when you said you're doing fine," Carpenter says.
"Is this why you recalled me from the field?" Hayward asks. "I've been doing good work out there. I don't need to be put on rest leave."
"No," Carpenter says. "I scheduled you to come back because Aunt Taylor threatened me on pain of a no-confidence vote for my office if I didn't ensure that the whole family would be home for the feast days." Hayward looks away again, not trusting himself to speak. All of the sudden, there's something in his throat. "So pardon me for giving a shit about you. And also, go fuck yourself."
Hayward had been on this beat long enough to know that whatever the hell 'troth' meant, 'go fuck yourself' was in fact a Lower Delta euphemism for 'I care about you; please take care of yourself, and don't make me worry over you.' He'd heard it used in this context several times from Carpenter before (though never before directed at him) and more often than he cared to admit from Taylor.
"-not everything is about you, Hayward," Carpenter is saying.
Hayward's attention snaps back to the present. He has a feeling that this whole conversation isn't really about him. Not that Carpenter isn't sincere in her concern, or that Taylor hadn't told her on no uncertain terms to get him home in time for the holidays or suffer her displeasure, but it runs deeper than that. "What about you, then?"
"What about me?" Carpenter asks flatly.
"You're acting like I'm the only one who's taken a bad risk in recent memory," Hayward says. "You've got a lot to say about my ill-advised suicide mission, but I seem to recall you trying to fight a river-angel unarmed and single-handed, not a month later."
"I wasn't in any danger."
"Like hell you weren't."
"My god protected me then," Carpenter says haughtily. "Like he's protecting me now. If someone with power wasn't looking out for me, I wouldn't still be here."
Hayward laughs mirthlessly. He's convinced that Carpenter does the pious act just to get on his nerves. "Do me a favor and save it for somebody who buys what you're selling. You and I both know you don't believe that," Hayward says. "You got lucky, back then, and you've been pressing your luck ever since. You make bad calls when it comes to yourself, Carpenter. Reckless ones. You take risks you'd never in a million years put up with me taking. Not all the time, mind you. But sometimes." Carpenter looks away over the lapping waves and doesn't answer, and that's answer enough. "You're taking another bad risk right now."
Carpenter looks at him then, and he mimics smoking, taking a draw from an invisible cigar. She seems to buy that it's what he had meant, and not that her confiding in him is more than a little self-destructive, though that's true, as well.
Carpenter scoffs lightly. "It's going to take more than a few vices to do me in. Mason's bad habits didn't slow him down any. Us Katabasians are a hard lot to kill."
He sees it then, the angle that'll get her to listen. "If I understand correctly, that's the whole point of the feast," Hayward says. "That a Katabasian is hard to kill, and they sure as hell don't martyr themselves without a damn good reason."
Carpenter turns to face him and considers him as though she's seeing him for the first time.
"The way your Aunt Taylor told it to me, any Katabasian worth their salt knows that their suffering is a finite resource, and if they're going to sacrifice any bit of themselves, they had damn well better get something worthwhile in return."
"Fuck," she says. "Absolutely appalling to be lectured by you of all people about this. Even worse that you're right."
"This must be how Faulkner felt when you got elected in the first place," Hayward says.
"Probably," Carpenter agrees with a startled laugh.
"Hey, I'll make you a deal," Hayward says. "That's what this holiday is for, right? Gifts, and making deals with Katabasians?"
"Well, yes, if you want to make it all about the commercial aspects," Carpenter grumbles. "But all right. Let's hear it."
"You think that I'm too reckless for my own good, and I think the same about you," Hayward says. "So here's my offer. This year, you take better care of yourself, and I'll endeavor to do the same."
"Endeavor?" Carpenter says indignantly. "What kind of weasel shit is that?"
"Fine," Hayward says. "I will do the same."
"Hmm," Carpenter says, mulling it over. "It leaves something to be desired."
"How so?" Hayward asks. He'd kind of thought Carpenter would jump at the chance to extract a promise from him that he'd be more careful in the field. She never missed a chance to lecture him about it.
"As Katabasian, I'm meant to drive a hard bargain," Carpenter says. "This isn't a hard bargain by any measure."
"Seems square to me," Hayward says, though he suspects she's just messing with him. "My regard for my own wellbeing against yours."
Carpenter tsks. "It's about suffering, yeah? You said it yourself. My suffering's more valuable than yours. At least to the god we're swearing to."
"Well, let's hear the counteroffer, then," Hayward says. "I'm prepared to make this more interesting. What exactly did you have in mind?"
Carpenter swings both feet off the edge of the dock and leans against the mooring-post to face him, the stub of her cigar to one side of her mouth, half-illuminating her face as she pulls on it. She regards him in silence for a long moment, and something between a thrill and prey-animal fear buzzes in the base of his skull. He thinks for a second that she really is about to say something reckless-
Then a wave splashes up against the pier, larger than the rest, and drenches them both with spray, putting out Carpenter's cigar in the process. They remain motionless for a second, blinking idiotically at each other, until Carpenter gets to her feet in a huff. "Bait and flesh, my river," she exclaims. "I hate it when you do that. If you wanted me to share, all you had to do was ask." She takes the sodden cigar and flings it into the water with more force than was strictly called for. "Hope it gives you cancer."
Hayward is still trying to make sense of what just happened. "That's just the evening tide coming in, right?" he asks. "Something weird with the moon, or-"
"Nah," Carpenter says. "The tide's not due in until an hour after sunset. That was the river thinking it's my godsdamned babysitter. Might as well go back up. I doubt we'll be allowed another moment's peace, mood the water's in today."
"I thought you said the Trawler-man was dead?" he says, aghast. Hayward isn't sure he believes them getting soaked at an inopportune moment was divinely ordained, but it's weird enough to make him nervous. He typically prefers his gods a little less involved in his day-to-day affairs.
"Jury's still out on that," Carpenter says. "But the river is very much alive, and getting more so every day. Not to mention ungrateful." She glares at it before turning back to the shore. "Come on, let's go."
They walk back to the house in the failing light, and Carpenter leads him around back and in through the cellar door, where they can knock off the clinging mud from the trail from their shoes before going back to the party. They swing by the laundry and Carpenter appropriates a stack of starchy folded towels in practical dark colors and hands him one. He dries off while Carpenter takes her sweet time hanging up her jacket on the laundry rack. "You done stalling?" Hayward asks.
"Not quite," Carpenter says, moving on to inspect the cellar shelves.
Hayward gets the feeling that they're going to be here a while, as Carpenter feigns interest in her aunt's selection of canned goods, smoked fish, and moonshine. He sits down on the basement steps.
"We're coming up in the world," she comments. "Look at this, Hayward. Taylor's got a whole stack of dried shark fin. Just collecting dust. D'you know how much these are worth on the market these days? Drown me."
Hayward finds that he's unable to even remotely pretend to care about this discovery. "You ever think about getting away from all this?" Hayward asks. "That thing back there – I couldn't deal with that all the time. Sure, out here in the boondocks, you hicks just love to feel close to your gods, but me, I don't know. I don't think I'd like to be under quite that much scrutiny."
"Where would I go?" Carpenter asks, skeptical. "The Silt Verses teach us that all waters are one water, and that we're born into the river's service. Chosen for it, even. Can't exactly outrun it."
"You ever been to the high desert, on the other side of the Linger Straits?" Hayward asks. Carpenter shakes her head. "It's nice. Scenic. Dry. And anyway, that shit about all waters being under the power of one god – come on. You're smarter than that. I know you were raised with all this, and sure, you kinda buy it, but you have to admit that's a bridge too far, right? No one god has everything under their power. It doesn't work that way."
Carpenter shrugs. "Who knows?" she says. "I've no idea what he's really capable of, that's for certain." That's not exactly comforting, given the Trawler-man's track record. "The only thing that's gotten me this far is a healthy respect for the unknown. Not sure I'm prepared to take my chances." She pauses. "Thanks, by the way," she says, a little awkward, but heartfelt, nonetheless. "For coming after me."
"Don't worry about it." This, whatever this is, rates so laughably low on the list of things Hayward would be willing to do for Carpenter that he hadn't even really thought of it as a favor that merited a thank-you. He had figured Carpenter knew that. She hadn't told him how much she appreciated his help when he grew a horrible beard and got nineteen piercings to infiltrate the Chopper Inimitable for four months. She'd just said "nicely done" when he handed her his dossier, but then she'd rolled her eyes and added, "still can't believe they bought your getup, what with your cop shoes and you without a single tattoo, but bless the murky current, this is actionable intel." And, though he had felt a little offended on behalf of his favorite pair of athletic oxfords – which, now that he thought about it, really were cop shoes, and he had been damn lucky that his cover hadn't been blown over them – that had been fine by Hayward. Back in Glottage, he had neither expected nor received a thank-you for doing his job from his police chief, and now, out in the Delta, he didn't expect a thank-you for services rendered from his king.
Maybe what she's really thanking him for, then, is being one of the dwindling number of living people who recognizes that behind her marks of office and despite her god's unsettling favor, Carpenter is a person, a grown woman who misses her late grandmother on holidays, just as human and as fallible as the rest of them, and only marginally better at hiding it.
"This is the real Glass family feast-day tradition, you know," Carpenter says. "Me pitching a neurotic fit, and somebody having to talk me down. Used to be Em's job, may he rest in the garden below."
"So I really am part of the family now," Hayward deadpans.
Carpenter looks at him like he's crazy. "Just now figuring that out?" she says. "Weren't you supposed to be a detective?"
Something clenches painfully in Hayward's chest. "You just say things whenever, huh, Carpenter," Hayward manages to spit out. "No wonder your god's always taking it upon himself to throw water on you. I'd do the same if I thought I could get away with it." He stands up and plucks a jar of shine off the shelf.
Carpenter slaps his arm, snatches the liquor out of his hand, and puts it back. "What?" Hayward asks. "Taylor told me to make myself at home."
"We have a deal," Carpenter says reproachfully. "A sacred feast-day bargain, no less. Clean living, Hayward. Body and soul."
Hayward hadn't really thought Carpenter was taking him seriously, back at the dock, but if she had been, there's no going back now. Hayward had learned over the years that the Parish of Tides and Flesh had its own sort of code. They didn't hold it against you if you were a liar or a drunk or had killed somebody who had it coming. But they wouldn't tolerate someone who went back on their word, or took a gift without bearing one in return, or didn't keep their fishing gear clean enough. People had been turned out for less. These people kept their promises if it killed them, and Carpenter never backed down. If he didn't blink first, she sure as hell wasn't about to.
"Okay," Hayward says, though the thought of going a full year (longer?) without drinking makes him wish it was his picture up on the mantel instead of Carpenter's grandma. "It's a deal."
"Good," Carpenter says. She turns to head upstairs, with Hayward trailing behind her, when she stops in her tracks on the stairs, shakes her head a little.
"Hold up," Hayward says. "What is it?"
"Nothing," Carpenter lies.
He takes another step up, so they're face-to-face on the narrow steps. She won't look at him. He waits, until-
"If it's not true, if none of it's true, Hayward – then what the hell did my relatives die for?"
Hayward never met the Glass family, but if they're anything like Carpenter, he's known plenty of people who died for much stupider shit. "It was something they believed in," Hayward says. "That might not feel like much, but maybe that's enough."
"Even so-" her voice breaks, and for a sickening moment, he's afraid she's going to cry- "If I don't believe they died for something real, and my god can't protect me – or if I'm not worthy, if my faith isn't strong enough, and he won't-"
"Hey, hey, it's okay," Hayward says. He considers reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder, but thinks better of it halfway, and crosses his arms instead. "Maybe you're exactly what everybody thinks you are, who knows? But if you're not, it doesn't matter. If you can't be lucky, you just have to be careful. And you can do that." He ducks his head to catch her gaze, force her to look him in the eyes. "Right?"
She lets out a shuddering breath. They're standing close enough that he feels the puff of warm air on his cheek. "Yeah. Probably. Maybe."
"It's nice to believe there's somebody out there looking out for you in the hard times," Hayward says. "I get it. But if there's not, you have a house full of people upstairs who you know have your back."
"Right," Carpenter says. Her shoulders rise with another fortifying breath, and finally, finally looks back at him, steady again. "Guess you're Exhibit A." She bats at his elbow.
"Not sure about Exhibit A," Hayward says. "You can do a lot better than me. Maybe don't make me a first stringer in your support network."
"Eh, don't sell yourself short," Carpenter says, ever the smartass. "You got a slow start, sure, but you never judge a rookie too early. Sometimes the latecomers still end up on the varsity squad."
"You are an incorrigible shit-talker, do you know that about yourself?"
Carpenter grins. "You wouldn't like me if I weren't."
He considers this, in the damp of the basement, before following Carpenter back to the party, and concludes that it's true.