Page 13 of Of Shadows and Blood

“I see.” I look down at my dirty soles. “I mean, I understand.”

His thumb lifts my chin up and I try to hide my true feelings on the subject. “Let me see if I can come back earlier so we can talk. I am sorry, Liv. But Gods, I am strung a little thin here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I reply. “Don’t let me contribute to your stress. Work is important.” I take a step towards the house and he lets me. The creak of Ma’s chair lets me know she made it back safely.

Sawyer cracks his neck and promises, “Liv, I am trying to secure a future where you can experience a safer, less stressful life. Give me time to sort things through. I will come back for you. I will always come back for you.”

“Bye, Sawyer.” I wave and walk into the house. Something in me doesn’t have anything else to say at the moment.

Ma shifts in her chair downstairs and questions, “Liv? Everything okay?” I smile at her voice, nerves calming as I remove my shoes and pad into the kitchen. Our small table is covered in doilies handmade over the course of my time here. She’s got a pot of water boiling for tea.

I’m so thirsty.

She sits in her usual sitting chair made of tired wood and takes a big sweeping look at me as I walk into the space. She opens her arms to me and gestures to come. Her embrace is tender and pure. Today’s venture into the further neighboring village took longer, I take it.

“Now what happened out there? I worry his coming and going is doing more damage than good,” she whispers as I slide down in front of her chair. She begins to comb through my messy hair with her hands. Those tired, calloused hands that have taken care of me. I should leave, find a career, make something of myself but the thought of leaving her here to deal with Trentin makes me shiver.

“I made some pots you can bring to the market tomorrow,” she explains as she weaves my hair. “They remind me of my home.”

“Do you think you’ll ever go back?” I ask. She won’t speak of her history, and from what little she offers I know something awful occurred to bring her here. No family, no strings connected to another life.

“No, never. I couldn’t anyway.” Ma sighs and reaches over into one of her market baskets, revealing a bundle of flowers.

“White or purple?”

“Purple.”

She weaves a few of the flowers in the twists and hands me one. It’s a simple and delicate flower. I don’t know the name of it, but I haven’t seen this kind before. The purple is more than simple. It’s bold and regal.

Twisting the stem between my thumb and index, I raise it to smell its petals. I pull back slightly, intrigued by the various notes of its scent. Some forest, something else and some lavender.

I love it.

“Thank you,” I say as I stand up, looking over my shoulder at the one mirror we have in the house. It’s some sort of decorative item Ma must have picked up at the market years ago.

My braid snakes from my temple around to my opposite shoulder, adorned with these interesting blooms.

I start towards the door but pause at the makeshift bookcase in the sitting area.

We have five books, all in terrible condition but they still mean something to me. I walk over to the novels and pick up my favorite, a story about a man and a woman who fall in love by hunting and foraging together. Primitive, but it excites me still. I caress the worn spine and creak open the cover.

I run my fingers down the delicate title page and bite my lip thinking about the lovers embracing within these pages. I flip to chapter twenty and slide the purple flower in the crease, slowly closing the book up. Perhaps its scent will carry throughout the pages.

Rung by rung, I climb the ladder into my loft and sit on my crunchy mattress. A few moments pass as I sit in complete silence by myself. This room, my quaint sanctuary, has provided me with a home since I…

Since I…

Since, well, I can remember.

The kettle whistles, drawing me back to the present. Ma’s never-ending work ethic elicits movement from me, and I decide to go finish my work in the weeds before we settle in for the night.

Hopefully, we can make more money, more grata, tomorrow so that we can feed ourselves properly.

Chapter 5

Where does one define the boundary between life and death? Light and dark? Is it firm like bone or perhaps as wavering as dust in settling? It is no small thing to look into the middle and find an answer.

The monster, my enemy, retreats up the stairs. Is he satisfied with the fear coursing through me.