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And there it was.
Among the coins and the bits of parchment was the coiled silver chain. I didn’t think. I just pocketed it, handing everything back to the woman, scrambling to be on my way and out of her line of sight, like she could see the shame on my face clear as day.
I walked around with it in my pocket for half the day, the debate in my mind raging, screaming at me.Find her, and give it back. Sell it. It’s tarnished anyway. It’s not worth much. Go find the woman. You need to sell it. Get it out of your possession. Now.
I’d been on my way to the waterfront in search of Larka’s ghost again but pivoted back to town, headed to the pathetic shanty we called a jewelry shop.
But apparently they weren’t pathetic enough to purchase a piece of trash.
And it started then, taking opportunities when they were presented to steal jewelry, eyeglasses, anything I could get my hands on. Each time I brought something in, the shopkeeper would eye me, then the item. He had to know they were stolen, but his need for money outweighed any conscience he had.
I was surviving.Wewere surviving. The white hot rage would boil in my chest at times, slamming against my skin, fighting to get out. All I could do was take the rage, ball it into my fist like dough, and mold it into motivation to survive.
As winter melted into spring and the sun began to warm the city, our house remained cold. I couldn’t stand it. The streets, however, weren’t cold. When I managed to escape for a few hours, when I was a huntress and the measly wealth of Inkwell was my prey, I wasn’t Petra Gaignory. I wasn’t the surviving sister. I wasn’t cold or poor or pathetic. I simply was.
I had surpassed the feeling of guilt I would experience when I’d nick something from a pocket or a purse or a saddlebag. The shimmer of a thrill bloomed into something else. Now I was proud. There were days I swore that the Benevolent Saints smiled on me as it seemed my finds were laid out just for me. Maybe it was the Blood Saints tempting me. But then I reminded myself that none of the Saints were doingshitfor me. This fortune, this small slice of survival…this was my own doing.
No one was ever the wiser. No one suspected a thing, least of all my parents. It was never enough to make them question what I was bringing home. “Good day at the washbasin,” I’d say, or “Sidus woman paid me to clean her house,” plopping down a fresh bag of oatmeal on the countertop, my mother’s eyes glowing momentarily at the bounty that lay before her. I always kept my eyes low and my hood lower as I stood before the man at the shop. He simply paid me for whatever I brought that day and nodded as I turned to leave.
???
Da’s tremors had begun to snake their way up his arms, the spasms of his shoulders jolting his entire body. He often sat with his eyes closed, too exhausted to fight them anymore, letting them throw his body around like he was a buoy in rough water. I had bought him a mallet to replace the one that had busted, even though I knew he couldn’t use it. He spent so much time staring at it, eyes vacant and distant, that it didn’t take long for me to regret buying it for him.
The idea of a healer had never been mentioned. It was as if a silent agreement existed that if we brought it up, it would only make things worse, since we didn’t have the coin to afford it. But now… I had become stealthy, learning how to crouch in the shadows and disappear into nothing. I had become too brave for my own good, and I knew that. But I had built up a small stash of coins, just enough for a visit from a healer.
I walked through the front door one evening to find my mother spooning potato stew into my father’s mouth at our makeshift table, broth dribbling down his chin as he struggled to close his mouth around the spoon. His eyes were distressingly empty, the weight of the last six months dragging the corners down. He had grown all but despondent, answering questions with one word, if that. He had once been lighter than the wind, even with his affliction, and now he was a husk of his former self.
The one bright spot, the one thing that was somewhat of a comfort, was that he had begun taking walks in the evening. He always demanded to go on his walks alone. He relished the tiny slice of independence. Though the tremors made him a bit slower, he was still relatively steady on his feet.
After my mother dabbed the broth from his chin, he cleared his throat and rose, wobbling with the effort. “I’ll be walking now,” he said curtly. My mother rose to get his cloak, fastening the buttons and tie.
“Let me join you, Da,” I offered, stepping toward him.
“Nae, Petra. Let me do this one thing on my own.” His tone was short, agitated. He shouldered past me and out the door as the last light of day was swallowed by the blackness of the sky.
My mother and I stood in the kitchen for a moment, simply looking at each other, so many unspoken words between us. Her arms were crossed in front of her. “Petra, I need to know, how are–”
“I have money for a healer,” I cut her off, unable to bear the question I knew would come eventually. Her eyes widened, brows raised. She said nothing. I looked at the woman in front of me. Her face was lined with grief, the deep crevices in direct opposition to her thick, chestnut hair, still somehow resisting the graying of age. So small, so fragile. This woman was a stranger, no longer the mother I knew. She needed this as much as he did. “I think we should use it.”
She raised her hands to her mouth slowly, looking toward the floor. “I will not ask how you’ve been getting this coin,” she said quietly. “But do not get caught, Petra.” Her voice was grave, layered with the anxiety of a mother but the desperation of a beggar.
I nodded, silent understanding radiating from my face. I turned toward the small pot of stew on the stove and filled a bowl. My mother and I sat down at the table. “It’s gotten worse,” I whispered. Her eyes closed. My voice was cold, emotionless, as if I were making a simple observation about the weather. She nodded slowly.
“I know.” A single tear fell from her eye, rolling over her sharp cheekbone and falling to the raw wood of our makeshift table. “I don’t know what to do.”
“The healer is the first step,” I said. “She can tell us what to do.” I laid my spoon in my bowl, no longer hungry. “I will go see her tomorrow, have her come to the house.”
“Don’t tell your father.”
“I won’t.” If he knew, he’d call it off, send the healer away.
“He’s been forgetting things.” Her voice was so small, so defeated that I felt my heart crack, each piece sinking lower and lower. “Yesterday he forgot Larka’s name.” Her voice broke, a sob erupting from deep in her chest. A pit opened in my stomach, and I clawed at the bit of hope I had as it was sucked toward the hole. “I don’t like that he’s walking alone.”
I nodded. “I’ll make arrangements for the healer.” I rose abruptly from my chair and padded up the stairs to the room Larka and I had shared.
