Daisy laughed, the sound rusty from disuse. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“You’ll take my ropa vieja. Sunday. Six o’clock.”
Maryanne bustled off before Daisy could refuse, and the warmth of the interaction faded quickly, leaving behind the steam and clank and the endless white river of sheets that didn’t care whether she lived or died.
The walk home took just under an hour. Her shoes—held together with hope and a prayer—slapped against the wet pavement like a soundtrack to her life. She didn’t think about the blister forming on her heel or the ache in her lower back. And she didn’t stop until she reached St. Crispin graveyard.
Her gaze went to the tree in the far corner. Branches still bare from winter, but soon they would explode into pink blossoms. She didn’t know who St. Crispin was or why he had a cemetery named after him, but she knew that tree. A perfect tree, the kind from fairytales, gnarled at the trunk with twisting branches.
She liked to imagine her mother resting beneath those soon-to-come blossoms. At peace, instead of in a generic cardboard box under the water-stained ceiling on Daisy’s mantle. No urn. No headstone. Just her mother’s name and dates on a peeling sticker.
Her hand went to the tarnished gold locket hanging from her neck. Someday, Daisy planned to lay her mother to rest there.
Turning away from the dream for now, she crossed the street to her flat.
As soon as Daisy reached the second floor, she spotted the yellow notice taped to her door. The cruel, crisp warning popped against the peeling paint, and her stomach dropped.
* * *
NOTICE OF RENT ADJUSTMENT...no longer subject to rent control provisions... ...increase of £340 per month effective immediately... Failure to comply will result in eviction.
* * *
Three hundred forty more? That meant sixty-eight hours at minimum wage. Hours she didn’t have.
She ate beans from tins. She hadn’t bought new shoes in two years. Her landlord might as well have asked for the moon.
Throat tight, she ripped the notice from the door and crumpled it in her hand. She shivered the moment she stepped inside, not surprised to find the radiator not working again. Snatching the metal frying pan from the stove, she banged the radiator until it whistled to life.
Uncrumpling the notice, she flattened it on the counter, smoothing out the creases and folding it neatly. She tucked it inside her tattered copy of The Great Gatsby, where she hid her money. Her bookshelf, stuffed with paperbacks rescued from curbside boxes, held her only means of escape. Fairytales and love stories full of beautiful lies. But in books, the heroines always found a way out.
That night, Daisy dreamed the yellow notice multiplied. One becoming ten. Ten becoming a hundred. Papering the walls until she was drowning in yellow. Until the numbers grew teeth and began chewing through her walls.
She woke gasping as the radiator screamed. Grey dawn was already approaching.
When she entered work, she didn’t immediately start her day. Fingers frozen, she went straight to the bathroom, as was her ritual. It took a while for the water to warm, so she started the faucet and sat on the closed toilet lid as she waited, head in her hands, gathering strength rather than falling apart.
Once the water started to steam and she’d had a chance to find some motivation for the day, she washed her hands until feeling returned to her fingers. That was when she saw it.
A square emerald envelope of the richest linen paper she’d ever seen.
Frowning, she dried her hands on her coat and carefully lifted it for a closer look. The envelope had no place in a rust-stained bathroom covered in cracked porcelain. She should turn it in to the Lost and Found. But when she turned it over, gold lettering flashing under the fluorescent light, she hesitated.
* * *
Open Me.
* * *
Tracing the command with trembling fingers. How could anyone write such pretty letters? The metallic calligraphy was hand-done.
Curiosity got the better of her. Glancing at the door to assure herself it was locked, she looked back at the formal envelope, examining it carefully. Her thumb slipped under the wax stamp, marked with the letters JT, and she broke the seal.
“Oopsy.”
Inside was a stiff single card. Same emerald paper, same gold lettering.
* * *
