Breath tore from her throat in sharp pants, but she would not slow. She dashed through the heart of the Old Quarter, heading towards Midtown. In the main streets, she passed liveried guards raising flags and barriers in preparation for the upcoming ceremony, the golden dragons on their chests glinting in the bright sunlight.
She felt sick.
They had known Esmelie had turned eighteen winters old, of course. But away from Silicia and the familiarities of the mountains, such threats had seemed distant. Everything had paled in comparison to the pain of their life in Tormale: the dank lodging, the punishing grind of work and Ravie’s infidelities. They had been complacent.
She zigzagged through the streets of Midtown and finally reached the descent into the Pits. The pavements receded and the buildings shrank. She ran on, her lips salty with sweat and the unravelled ends of her cloche whipping behind her.
Sorrow lies ahead. A great tragedy.
She must be wrong. This would all turn out to be some great mistake. The alternative was too terrible.
Maylie wove through the cramped, murky lanes, dodging beggars and drunks. She ran with her fingers clenched and her head pounding the rushed beat of her heart. Mangy stray dogs skittered out of her path with grumbling growls and a flock of spooked lovetails scattered from a rooftop with panicked coos.
Finally, aching and breathless, Maylie reached the dark mouth of their street.
Something was wrong.
Bony women and grubby, wide-eyed children were dithering on the cobbles, clucking and whispering to one another.
Maylie’s steps slowed.
By now she could see that the door of their shack stood open.
Inside it was empty.
Esmelie was gone.
Part Four
THE GREAT DRAGON
THE TALE OF A BABY
IT WAS SCREAMINGagain, piercing, ceaseless wails.
Maylie stood by the door, leaning forward, balancing on the balls of her feet. She could run. Part of her wanted to run. But she stayed.
Tiny limbs flailed in a tatty basket on the floor. Maylie forced herself closer. She bent and jiggled the basket with her foot, but nothing stopped the crying. The infant’s face became red and blotchy.
Maylie’s chest contracted. ‘Just give me a moment,’ she hissed.
She turned away, intending to collect herself. The squalor of the one-room shack faced her: mouldering food on the table, murky water in a bucket and dirt from the dark, wet streets outside slathered across the rickety floorboards. It was a different shack from the one she had shared with Esmelie, on the other side of the Pits. Maylie had not been able to face staying in their old lodgings after her sister’s death. She had hurriedly found somewhere new, not realizing it was even drabber and bleaker than their past abode until it was too late.
‘Just give me a moment,’ she repeated, picking up one of the soiled plates. Perhaps if things were cleaner, everything would be better. Perhaps she would not feel so hopeless.
But the baby’s screaming continued. On and on.
‘All right!’ she finally cried, her voice breaking. ‘We’ll try.’
Maylie sat on the edge of the sagging bed. She took a deep breath and tried to ignore the tears gathering in her eyes. Untying the neck of her dress, she pulled one shoulder free and tucked the fabric beneath her left breast. Bending over, she lifted the baby from the basket and slipped it into the crook of her arm. Then, counting to three, she latched the baby on.
It began to suck and Maylie winced, her toes curling. For a moment, there was quiet, but then the baby began to wriggle. Its face puckered and its back arched. With a scream of rage, it ripped its mouth from Maylie’s breast and threw up its head.
There was no milk. There had never been enough milk.
‘I’m sorry,’ gasped Maylie, tears wetting her cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry.’
The baby roared and Maylie let it slip from her lap on to the bed next to her. She dropped her head into her hands, her shoulders shaking.
