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CHAPTER 1
It’s getting colder outside. Of that fact, I’m quite sure. I discreetly cup my hands in front of my face and blow some welcomed warmth into them. The stately woman is taking quite some time to inspect the scarf I am desperate to sell. Maybe she’ll actually buy something from me today. I’ve entertained this woman before, but with no good results. The proud lady has never bought a single item from me in the past, although she bothers to feign interest in my wares when I pass her in the streets. Rich people never cease to amaze me. But I’m usually up for a good challenge, so I smile and watch as she turns the scarf over and over, then pulls it closer to her face.
“This thing is a hand-me-down,” the woman finally declares. “Look at the pulls in the stitching and the frayed edging. I don’t want this rag.”
“Please, will you not reconsider?” I ask. “It’s getting colder out, and the particular blue in this scarf mimics the ocean hues in your eyes. It’s not a rag, my lady, and it would look quite lovely on you.”
The woman ignores my flattery. “It is a hand-me-down, and I don’t want it. Speak to me again when you have something new to offer, girl. You’ve done nothing but waste my time.” She tosses the scarf back to me and walks away.
I pull a bundle of matches from my pouch and tug the woman’s sleeve when I catch up to her again. “My lady, how about some matches? A match can never be a hand-me-down, that’s for certain. See, I do indeed have something new to offer you. Five matches for a single bit, my lady. Quite the bargain, yes? What do you say?”
But the woman simply notches her nose higher into the crisp air and quickens her pace. I guess I can’t blame her, though. I wasn’t being completely honest. A match can indeed be a hand-me-down. Take me, for instance. I’ve been known as the match girl for as long as I can remember, resorting to selling my matches when all else fails. I am that one single match that has been burned and extinguished time and time again. And if I were alone in this wretched world, I probably would have allowed myself to burn out completely long before I reached these twenty seasons.
But I have Gram.
And she needs me.
So, I keep peddling my wares to put food on our table. I drape the unwanted scarf over my shoulder and go about seeking out another woman of means who might actually show some compassion and buy my secondhand nothing.
“Hello, Milla,” the vegetable vendor calls to me as I pass his corner. I can smell the potato soup he has simmering in a large cauldron and my stomach growls. “Might I buy some matches from you? My woman will want a nice fire in the hearth when I finally make it home this evening.”
“Most certainly,” I reply. My smile is so wide, it hurts my face. The vegetable man usually buys two bits worth of matches at a time, and two bits means our bellies will be full this night. And Gram needs the extra nourishment, to be sure. Her cough is getting worse of late, and nothing seems to give her relief. I nod when he places the coins in my hand and shoves the matches in his pocket. He tips his hat.
“Won’t you sit and have some soup?” he asks. “No charge for you, my dear.”
I’m quite tempted, but I won’t eat until Gram fills her belly, so I respectfully decline. “Thank you, kind sir, but I need to get to the bakery before sundown. I don’t want to be out after curfew. Stay warm this night, good sir.” I wave and move along.
I make my way towards the bakery. Hopefully, there will still be some olive loaf left. It’s Gram’s favorite, and I need something to tease her appetite. She keeps saying her cough will pass, that she’ll be as fit as a fiddle come the first snowfall, but I doubt her hopeful evaluation. But Gram is the strongest woman I know. But I suppose that’s really not saying too much. After all, she’s the only family I have.
At least Ithinkshe’s the only family I have.
Truth is, I know nothing about my lineage. I know that Gram is my biological grandmother—that’s the only knowledge she will afford me when it comes to our family tree. Over my twenty winters in this harsh world, I’ve asked, begged, pleaded, done almost anything to learn who we are and where I come from, but Gram refuses to enlighten me on the subject. She says,‘You think knowing will somehow reveal your worth, but worth in that capacity is overrated. You are more than worthy now, my child.’She thinks it sounds poetic, but I think it simply confirms my suspicions that I came from nowhere. Maybe she really did find me under a bridge like she used to tell me when I was being a mischievous child and she was cross. But I have her quick wit and ready smile, and I can see myself in her reflection beyond the deep lines in her face. I just wish she wasn’t so stubborn.
I stop in front of the dress shop when a lilac frock in the store front catches my eye. It’s not a color that would complement my red hair and ordinarily blue eyes, but it is lovely in its own right. I look down at my simple peasant dress, and the heavy binding running across my chest that conceals my womanly features from unwanted attentions. I push a few stray strands of hair away from my face and tuck them under my bonnet. I could walk the streets of Timberness from now until eternity and still never sell enough scarves to afford a lilac dress with pearl beading and silked lace. I pull a match from my chemise and look toward the castle in the distance, its watchtower a foreboding dread that still manages to prickle my skin at the sight. I wonder if women who live within the castle walls appreciate the simple beauty found in the prospect of a lilac dress. I pull my flintstone from the top of my boot and strike the match.
“I wish I could wear a lilac dress one fine day and see inside the castle walls.” I watch the flame burn until it almost reaches my fingers, and then blow it out. “Like matches for wishes,” I mutter, knowing how silly and frivolous my wish sounds.
But wishes are supposed to be frivolous, or else they’re not worth making in the first place. I retrieve my only three coins from my pouch and head toward the bakery again. Gram needs an olive loaf, and I need to get my head out of the clouds.
CHAPTER 2
The town square in Timberness is alive and bustling with traders. The streets are narrow and noisy. The town crier is wailing about roasted pig’s feet and goose legs for sell near the mercantile. His words make my mouth water, so I avoid the area altogether. Soon the first snow will fall, and the brutal cold will stop production for a while for the vendors with no proper establishment. Only the merchants with actual shops will remain open. So now is the time that most folks stock up on peddled wares the best they can before the temperatures are too bitter to brave. But I will still sell my matches despite the frigid cold. The match girl is faithful, and hopefully my patrons will be as well. Matches are life for me and Gram.
The sun is setting in brilliant streaks of pink and orange that dance behind the castle as I stare across town and beyond the river. Life in Timberness is monotonous for me. I don’t have to look down at the cobblestone streets that my feet know so well. They have forged this same path day after day and week after week. I could walk to the bakery blindfolded if I had to. I raise my water flask to my lips and take the last remaining sip. I peek inside the butcher’s shop when I near the entrance. Fatted ducks are plucked and hanging, just ready to be roasted for some fortunate souls’ tables. I wish I could afford one for Gram, but pickings are too slim today. Maybe the morrow will be better.
“Milla, how are you faring today, my lady?”
I know the voice as well as my own.Master Burgess. He owns the tannery and is about the purest soul God ever sent to Earth. The tannery is located on the outskirts of the village, well away from the day-to-day activities in the town square. His chosen trade is quite odoriferous, one filled with dead animal remains and skins. The pungent smells of rotting flesh and stagnant water assaults the nostrils as soon as the tannery is visible. I nearly fainted from the foul stench the one time I was thickheaded enough to think I could stomach visiting him there. I had the vapors until nightfall.
But Master Burgess is in his trading post today, a smile embedded in his gray beard and a glint in his kind, tired eyes. He sells his leather goods here—spending five days in the tannery and two days in the town square. His items are the highest quality in Timberness and the surrounding boroughs. He is a master at his craft.
“I’m not faring as well as I’d hoped, I’m afraid,” I say, hugging Master Burgess when I’m in front of him. I can still smell a faint whiff of the tannery on his heavy cloak, but I don’t mind. He’s more than a welcomed sight.
“So, no decent sells today?”
“To my misfortune, no.”
Master Burgess reaches in the deep pocket of his cloak and pulls out a large bundle of matches. “Well, no more fretting, my dear. Maybe these will turn that misfortune into reward, aye?” He places them in my hands and gives them a little squeeze.
