“A copper then,” I muttered, frustrated. I reached to hand him the coin, but when I looked down, my palm was empty. A sinking feeling settled in, I must have lost it while being pushed through the crowd.
The merchant grinned as he noticed. “The offer still stands, lass.”
I leaned forward, arms resting on his stall. “I’d rather burn on a pyre of Brier Len’s rotting trees.”
With a shrug, I pushed off the cart, slipping a handful of wood chips beneath my sleeves. I turned away, pulling up my hood as I shouldered back into the crowd.
Furious at myself for losing a week’s pay, I stomped down the pathhome, each step heavy on the dry soil. I wasn’t sure how I’d make up for the loss, but I always seemed to get by. Of course, there’d be no help waiting for me when I got home.
I couldn’t say when my father’s drinking started, but if I had to guess, it was before I could walk. Over time, it had driven my mother to madness, and eventually, to infidelity. He could’ve had her punished for it, but I doubted he had the sense to care.
My thoughts drifted to the merchant’s gripes about Brier Len, the woods I called home. It was true, the forest was rotting, bit by bit. Since my first bleed, the trees had withered and died. The creeks had dried to dust. Even the wildlife had fled what was once a thriving land.
Snow had begun to fall, and a quiet sense of comfort settled over me. I’d always felt drawn to it, even with winter’s sharp, biting chill. I walked on through the drifting flakes until a shabby cottage came into view, nestled among a cluster of decaying trunks. As I approached, I stomped the snow from my boots and pushed open the door. It creaked loudly when I stepped inside, just before I kicked off my boots, and let the door close behind me.
My father was slumped in a chair, somnolent and reeking of ale, face-down on the kitchen table. My mother stood nearby, humming softly as she stirred a pot with a wooden spoon. I approached calmly, peered into the pot, and sighed.
Empty, of course.
It had become routine to find her confused and unwell by the time I returned from work. Some days, the house looked as if a storm had passed through. Furniture shifted, belongings scattered. Other times, important supplies were missing, as if taken by invisible hands, without a trace left behind.
Moving past my mother, I fed a bit of kindling from my cloak into the hearth. I’d pocketed enough to last us three days, maybe a little more. Kneeling, I peeled off my gloves and arranged the logs to catch easily. I took the sole flint we owned and struck it, but only a faint sparkflickered. The next few strikes chipped the stone, already worn thin from use. I held back my frustration and made one final attempt, and to my surprise, the kindling caught. I fanned the flames to life, and soon the hearth blazed, filling the small room with warmth.
My mother clapped joyfully behind me, grinning at the sight. She held her upturned palms to the flames, soaking in the heat. She wore a sultry gown, her breasts spilling from the corset. Raven-colored hair fell loosely around her face. She still looked young, even now. She’d been seventeen when she was sold off to my father, and eighteen when she gave birth to me nine months later.
I made a point of looking at her dress. “Aren’t you cold, Mother?”
“Hmm, I hadn’t even noticed, sweet.”
“It’s snowing outside.”
“Is it now?” My mother drifted toward the window and gasped in wonder, her nose bright as a berry. She began to hum,“Snowflakes falling, round and bright, like little stars in the quiet night…”
“Did anything happen today?” I asked, knowing nothing had.
“Oh, yes. I’ve prepared supper for us, sweet. Take a look.” She pointed toward the kitchen, to the empty pot, then began to swirl and sway as she returned to humming.
“Right,” I murmured. “Why don’t you tend to the flowers?”
“Should I?” Mother tapped her chin delicately. “I think I will,” she said, with soft certainty.
Her small steps carried her to a faded painting of daisies beside the window. She lifted a weathered pail and began to mimic watering. As she worked, she hummed softly,“The flowers bloom, so quiet and neat, turning earth into something sweet…”
I turned away. I couldn’t bear to watch for long. There was a slow, steady pain in seeing her slip further into delusion with each passing day. Pushing the ache aside, I rummaged through the cabinets for anything edible. All I found was a stale bag of barley, three shriveled potatoes, and a jar of pickled cabbage, each just shy of spoiling.
Father had once hunted, but the forest was empty now, and meat cost more than we could afford.
I picked up the empty pot and stepped out the back door to fill it with water. I figured I could cook the barley and potatoes into a stew. After a few tugs on the well rope, I drew enough to fill the pot. As I did, my eye caught a bundle of wildflowers peeking through the snow near an evergreen. The sight stirred a slow, simmering resentment in me.
Leaving the pot behind, I crossed the distance and seized the wildflowers in my fist. The cold bit into my palms, but I didn’t care as I tore the bouquet apart, petal to stem. I let the pieces fall and crushed them beneath my boots until nothing remained but dust.
I was sure they’d come from the neighboring widow.
He was an older man with a sallow face, but a silver tongue, always ready with sweet words that drew my mother in. Not long after I was old enough to start working, he began showing up at our door when I wasn’t home. He knew my father was a drunkard, but it started off innocently enough. He brought leftover goods, small offerings. But soon came the flattery, the lingering compliments, the invitations for evening walks. Before long, he’d drawn my mother into his home, and their affair began. He took advantage of her as her mind began to slip, circling her like a vulture drawn to something already broken.
I’d kill him myself if I could.
I stepped back inside, hung the pot over the hearth, and pulled a pocketknife from my trousers. Dumping the barley into the simmering water, I began slicing the shriveled potatoes. Once they were cut, I added them to the pot.
