The years haven’t been kind, but—Grete adjusted the eyepatch, making sure it didn’t ride on her cheekbone—kinder than I deserve. She glanced out the grimy window to the alley below.
“Oh, Schatzi, is that scar bothering you again?” Cook dipped her finger into a tin of salve.
Grete shrunk back, wrinkling her nose.
His mottled hands shook as Viktor Engel etched characters into the damp earthen brow. “The good book says it took a word to create the world, eh?” He shuffled back a few steps, flicking the scrapings from his cracked nailbeds. “Not bad. Not bad at all.” A smile crept across his face, deepening crevices under his grizzled beard.
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