I took the sack of barley from her. While the healers had cured my mother’s illness, they couldn’t cure old age. Not that my mother was very old, but a life of hardship had taken its toll on her body. Instead of walking, she hobbled, and her shaky hands kept her from doing needlework. People looked at her and saw a wrinkled old woman in a tattered dress; I saw the kindest, most wonderful person in the world.
“Thank you, my darling.” She rubbed her lower back and gazed around the street.
Market day was as busy as ever, the crowd’s chattering even louder than the bleating sheep and clucking chickens. Stalls offered everything: eggs, honey, sacks of wool, leather shoes, baskets, nails, and cooking pots. The rich could buy fine jewelry and spices from faraway kingdoms. My mother and I could scarcely afford barley, peas, and a bit of salt.
“Should we head home?” I asked.
Most people stayed at the market all day, but it was pointless to linger when we couldn’t buy anything else.
“Yes…” she said absently, stopping in front of a baker’s stall. Her eyes lingered on the custard tarts. I knew they were her favorite.
“Get lost,” the baker spat at us, red face twisting in a snarl. “We don’t give charity here. Go loiter somewhere else.”
My mother ducked her head and started walking away, but I charged right up to the front of the stall.
“We were just looking.” I slammed my hands on the table area, getting right in his face. “You don’t have to be such an ass about it.”
“You’re blocking the view of paying customers.” He grabbed the long-handled wooden paddle he used to put bread in the oven and raised it menacingly. “Make tracks, or you’ll regret it.”
“Emmeline.” My mother tugged on my arm. “Come on. It’s not worth fighting over.”
It wouldn’t be much of a fight. The baker might be bigger than me, but I was faster and meaner. Still, my mother was right. It wasn’t worth the trouble. I shot the baker one last glare and let her pull me away.
We left through the town gates, and I tried not to inhale as we passed the putrid decapitated heads placed on pikes—a lovely welcome for visitors. It was a chilling reminder of what would happen to me if anyone discovered my shapeshifting magic. Halfthe heads belonged to a werewolf pack, with a hedge witch and ordinary criminals making up the rest.
The heads weren’t the only sign of death here, just the newest. Blackened ruins of houses lay around us, left over from when the Netherworld armies had swept across the countryside half a year ago. I should feel bad about it, but without the demons slaughtering people and leaving a shortage of workers, my mother and I would’ve never landed the “respectable” jobs as laborers on a farm.
We followed the long, winding road until the town and its ruins disappeared behind us, going past hilly fields and farmland, green mountains rising in the distance. It was half a day’s walk back to the farm, so we didn’t rush. A cloudy sky tempered the sun’s heat, allowing a pleasant coolness to settle on the dusty track. Wildflowers, purple and gold, dotted the roadside, and birds chirped as they fluttered from field to tree.
It didn’t seem fair that a kingdom ruled by a tyrant who encouraged severed heads as decoration could have such beautiful scenery.
We kept hiking toward the southern edge of a sprawling old forest. As the road cut through the trees, my mother’s hobble had slowed more than usual, and a sheen of sweat covered her homely face.
“Time for a rest?” I asked.
“Yes. That sounds nice.”
I reached into my apron pocket and pulled out the custard tart I’d stolen while distracting the baker with my yelling. “Here. Eat this.”
“Emmeline!” My mother looked down the road like she expected to see the baker charging after us. “What were you thinking?”
“That the baker was an asshole and his tarts were probably overpriced.”
“You could have been caught. We can’t afford the fine for thievery.”
I bit back a sigh. We’d had this argument a thousand times. “I’m too good to get caught, Maman. You know that. And I didn’t take any big risks today.”
“Risks?” Her tired hunch vanished as she drew herself up in fury. “As in more than one? What else did you steal?”
I scratched my cheek. “That’s not what I meant.”
She gave me a look as hard as stone, and I gave up. I made a living lying and stealing, but I could never fool my mother.
By the time I’d turned out my pockets and emptied my sleeves, I’d presented her with two apples, a sachet of cinnamon, rope netting, some linen cloth, and five types of cheese.
My mother put a hand to her head and moaned. “Forget the fine. They’re going to put your head on a pike with the rest of those poor souls.”
“If you don’t want the tart…”
