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“Good girl,” I whisper to my horse as I approach, one hand raised in deference. “Did you miss me?”
She meets me as far as her tied rope will allow. I raise the apple to her mouth as my forehead rests against her neck, my shoulders dropping as we touch. I press into her for another moment, breathing in her natural smell of earthiness and meadow grass. Nuzzling into Prue’s mane is the closest feeling to home I may ever experience again in this life, and I don’t take a second of it for granted.
I feel whole again as I pull away from her, reaching out toward a nearby tree to pick up my bow and string it around my back, hooking my quiver of arrows to the side of my saddle. I swing my leg up and over Prue.
A few rays of sunlight poke through stray clouds as we leave the cover of the trees, the sun continuing its arc across the sky signaling late afternoon. Marg will be expecting me soon, before the tribute service for the prince. Will I have enough time to stop beforehand?
I move Prue into a trot to pick up the pace, adjusting my direction toward the East Village, although eastern slums might be more appropriate. Call it a hunch, but I know the boy will be there.
A few city guards are posted at the mouth of the road. If anyone was looking too closely, they’d notice my attempt at an innocent smile being more of a grimace. I keep my eyes down as to not evoke attention and hopefully pass off mysmileas genuine.
My fists clench when one of them looks my way. He seems to be admiring my horse, but slowly his gaze moves up my frame until it rests on my lowered face. Perhaps I shook the cloak loose a little too soon.
The guard stays focused on me, following the movements of Prue as we make our way past their check-point. I match my eyes to his, unwilling to cower under his stare and unwilling to bow to his station.
The guard’s face is somewhat handsome— a troll hiding beneath a well-built guise. His blue eyes are so bold I can see their color from where I sit. I imagine what it would feel like to lock him into a cell, watching that blue slowly fade away as the months and years move on.
Another guard catches his attention, keeping me in my saddle and my hidden blade out of my hands. I sneer as the red and gold of their uniforms comes into focus. The color of blood and greed, perfectly fitting for royalty and their supporters.Sorry Marg.
I forget that I’m now supporting royalty, but it just doesn’t feel the same. Marg may be royal in name, but she’s a different breed. She is more like an obscure shade of royalty— someone who fell into it out of necessity instead of actual desire. It’s hard to loathe someone, maybe the only someone, who is trying to piece this country back together.
I pass by the guards, no one stopping me or asking questions. Not even the handsome one who seemed to study me a bit more closely. I wish I could say I was relieved, but part of me itches for one of them to pick a fight before they disappear behind me.
I turn a corner into one of the poorest parts of the capital. Even after the rainstorm last night, the unmistakable smell of urine and rot fills the air. I cover my nose with my hand as I rummage in my saddle bag for a small cloth to wrap around my nose and mouth.
Further down in the village I spot the boy, blood still crusted around his nose. His eyes are clear, but two dry streams mark against the contrast of his dirty cheeks, the one already developing the purple and blue bruise I knew would blossom. I pull out the cloth purse from my hidden pocket as I approach him.
“Hello,” I say, prompting him to look up at me. “I think this belongs to you.” I toss him the sack, and the jingle of coins is evident as it lands on his lap.
His eyes look through clumped lashes, lines forming between his brow. The boy picks up the bag, the contents clinking together as he pours it out onto his hand.
“This… this isn’t mine,” he tells me, clearing his throat as his eyes dart around us before returning to me. His response feels heavy in my stomach. This boy knows better than to trust me— kind strangers no longer exist in these parts of Turin.
I bend down so I’m eye-level with the lad. “Can I tell you a secret?”
He nods, bobbing one knee up and down as I talk. “I have a magical ability to find lost things. And my senses tell me that whatever is in there belongs to you.”
Magic is such an entrancing idea, encompassing so many different views in my mind. I’ve never believed in some other-worldly power. I view this fascinating concept more like a gift one has been born with. A natural talent that has been stoked and weeded and given the light it needs to grow. One look at this child and I decide a little white lie, one that gives hope and awe to someone in need, can’t hurt.
“And when the beloved trinket is near,” I continue, “my body hums in response, like the wings of a hummingbird as she goes in search of nectar from spring’s first blooms. Getting louder and deeper the closer I get.” The boy’s eyes are so wide I can see the whites all around them.
“But lady, I didn’t lose this. At least… not all of it,” he says through his furrowed brow, his attention back to the coins in the purse.
“Think of it as payment— for that man’s ill treatment of you.” Hope wants to glimmer at my words, but his hesitation isn’t unexpected. He’s probably never had this much money in his possession, and it must feel both exciting and dangerous at the same time.
“But if he comes looking for me, comes looking for this,” he holds up the money, and I can see him visibly shaking at the thought.
“Keep it hidden in your pocket until you find a safe place. Only take out a coin at a time as you use it. And if he comes again, so will I.” I know I can’t be everywhere at once, making sure he’s safe while also attending to my duties for Marg. But if anything happens to this boy, I will personally make sure Reynauld lives to regret it.
“Thank you, miss.” He still looks unsure as Prue and I walk away. But after a few moments he runs past us, elation finally brimming across his face. I can’t hide my smile as he takes off down the road, I imagine to find his sister and share their good fortune. Perhaps the only good fortune they’ve seen their whole life.
Another wave of urine reaches my nose, my face crinkling in response.
As I turn around to mount my horse, a woman walks close by. She has light brown hair, the same shade as mine and the same length as my mother’s when she walked these streets. The similarities stop there, but it brings an ache to my gut to be reminded of her and the silhouette of her presence in my life.
It’s moments like these I dread, but also constantly search for. I want to forget, but I want to remember. Freedom of my pain also means freedom from my perfect memories of her. I’m just not willing to let go.
I soak up the image of her hair as the woman continues her path around me. On the outside my body feels relaxed, my face wholly content as I watch her retreating form.
