On my way out of the square, I’m stopped by the sound of hushed voices.Three women huddle by Agatha’s fabric stall, their bodies pressed into a tight, conspiratorial circle.The sharp exchange of glances between them instantly piques my interest.
I shuffle closer, pretending to inspect the not-so wide range of wools, linens and hemp fabrics, all in ombre shades of greys and blacks.My hand skims the coarse fibres, as if inspecting them for my personal use.
“...she’s barely breathing now.The rot’s in her chest—it won’t be long, I’m sure of it.”
“How old is she again?”The woman wearing a mourning veil draped over her head asks.
“Seven.”
A chorus of audible gasps drift around the circle, as Agatha’s leather-worn hand covers her mouth.
“Seven?That’s so young.”
“I know,” another woman dressed in a dark grey tunic says.“It’s starting younger and younger now.”
“Mmh,” Agatha mumbles.“These poor souls don’t stand a chance.Under the Mother’s eye, I hope she doesn’t suffer too long.”
“Under the Mother’s eye,” they all chant in unison.
The words stick to my mind like glue as I turn to leave.Just a child.Like so many others taken before they’ve begun to live.I move on before they notice me lingering, before the ache in my chest cracks open wider.
The smell of damp stone and ash enfolds me like a blanket as the door creaks open under my hand.
Sylas stirs, a jagged bark of a cough tearing through the silence, as I set my satchel on the table.
“Look what I brought,” I say, unwrapping the rootcake, holding it out like treasure.
The purple stain shines bright in the darkened space, as flour coats my fingertips.His lips twitch, causing a dimple to form in his right cheek.For a heartbeat, his eyes light with that old, mischievous twinkle I know so well.One that’s got us into trouble many times over the years.
“Haven’t had one of those since…” his voice is raw, as if the very words scrape across his throat on the way out.His gaze goes distant, dulled, as if recounting a treasured memory.“...since Ma.”
I break the cake in half, pressing the bigger piece toward his hand.“Don’t argue,” I demand.
He doesn’t.He chews slowly, as if trying to make every morsel last.For a moment, the lines of pain in his face soften, smoothed by a rare, quiet peace.
“You work too hard,” he rasps.
I scrunch my nose and shrug, tearing into my smaller piece.“Somebody has to.”I wink, hoping to stitch a moment of normalcy into his world that’s falling apart.
The silence between us isn’t stifling tonight—it’s familiar.Comfortable, almost.Even though the truth of his condition weighs heavily between us like a physical thing.
I watch him eat, committing these small acts to memory, not knowing which will be his last.The candlelight glows softly on his face, highlighting his now sharpened edges.
I let myself imagine he’ll be graced with another day, but the shadows in the corner of the room twitch, restless.Like they know things are about to change.
5
SEREN
Morning doesn’t arrive in the Hollow so much as darkness loosens its grip.
The handle of my satchel cuts through my shoulder, the little coin I have jingles with every uneven step through the lanes.The cool air stings my lungs with every exhale, as my breath hangs in the air like smoke.
A haggard looking couple walk toward me, arms linked in a marital chain, their faces stern from years of surviving.She leans in close, thinking her whispers are contained, but they’re not.
“Nothing good comes of old gods stirring,” she mutters.My grip tightens on the satchel strap.“Last time, whole families burned.”
The man’s greying hair moves with the slight nod of his head.“Best the Light puts them back in the ground where they belong,” he grumbles.
