1
Alette
The leather strapslaps against my back again, and I grit my teeth. If I cry out, my grandpa will only whip me harder. If I show any weakness, he’ll find a way to make this worse.
I wait, but no strike comes. Yet, I don’t move from my crouched position on our barn’s floor. This is sometimes part of the game. He lets me think it’s over, and I stop tensing, only for more blows to rain down on me.
“Alette,” he says my name in that disappointed way he always says it. “You’ll remember today’s lesson when you’re in the village tomorrow. You'll do better. Won't you?”
The arms I have wrapped around my chest squeeze harder. “I will, sir.”
Even though I know what he really means. He means I won’t make a mistake. Here at the farm. Or when I go into town. Mistakes have consequences. Everywhere.
He sighs. “Put your shirt back on.”
I grab it from the stable floor, ignoring the hay that clings to it, and yank the rough cloth back over my head, biting down on ahiss as the scratchy fabric glides over my injured skin. When I’m proper, I rise to my feet on legs that tremble and keep my head lowered as I try not to look at my grandfather.
“Alette.” Now he says my name with amusement, which means he’s about to tell me a familiar story, a reminder of why I need to make sure I keep him and my grandmother happy. “You were, what, four or five when your mother died? And ten when your dad got sick? Just a little ten-year-old left alone in a cabin in the woods, left todie. At least, you would’ve died if your father’s letter hadn’t reached us in time. Your grandmother and I gave up everything to come and live in this shitty little cabin in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, and keep you alive. Your grandmother even wasted her time schooling you at home so you’d have enough intelligence to keep this farm running. And for what? For nothing. You should be focused on repaying that debt, not making our lives harder.”
He’s said these words so many times. So many times that they circle around in my head like water in an eddy in a river. Until I’m not sure any more which way is up and which way is down. Iwasten years old when I buried my father. Iwasalone in these woods.But wasn’t I better off? When my grandparents came, didn’t everything get so much worse?Then, I wasn’t just caring for myself, I was caring for them, and nothing I did was ever good enough.
Nothing.
I’ve been obedient to them since day one. Never questioning. Never arguing. Always following orders exactly how they’re given. And yet, I’m constantly punished. Constantly whipped. Usually for things outside of my control. Like the chicken.
Or maybe it is my fault.I’m really not sure anymore.
“Wesavedyou,” he says, emphasizing the word saved. “And every day since, you've failed to show us the gratitude we deserve.”
I chance a look up, disgusted by the man before me. But I am thankful to see a man who looks nothing like me. His hair is white. His eyes are dark brown. And his once-muscled frame shows signs of his age, as his shoulders bend and skin hangs from his frame.
My father had avoided his parents. I never understood why until I met them. But during his dying days, he must have decided that having their help was better than no help and sent for them. He must have been sure of his decision. So I need to honor his wishes. I need to endure whatever my grandparents do to me, knowing that my dad knew best.
I must need them.
“That chicken never should’ve died.” He repeats the accusation he’s thrown at me a thousand times since some predator got into our coop and killed it. “If you’d done your job properly, it’d be alive, and we’d have enough eggs each day. But now, not only will you be getting the supplies when you go to the village, you’ll be bringing back a new chicken too.”
Everything inside of me tenses. “We don’t have enough to trade for a chicken.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, the leather strap hanging from his hand as if to remind me that the pain can start again, any time he wants. “You’re a beautiful, young woman, Alette. I’m sure you can think of something you can trade for the chicken.”
I have a feeling I know what he means, although I don’t want to imagine that I’m right. Still, a chill rolls down my spine all the same.
“Who should I ask?”
He smiles. “Start with the whore house, I’m sure they can steer you right.”
I’d never been to the whore house, but I knew what they did there. I knew it wasn’t a safe place for women. My father had always told me to stay away from it, but I guess I don’thave a choice now. Not that I’ll actually do what my grandpa is implying.
“Mr. Grady!” a familiar man’s voice calls out.
One of our few neighbors steps into the doorway of our tiny barn. It’s Mr. Clay, a man in his fifties. He has brown hair peppered with white, a large nose, and cold eyes. My father never let me be anywhere around the man when I was little. He said he didn’t like the way Mr. Clay looked at me, which, neither did I. But my grandfather seems to like him. He’s been having him come over more and more lately. I don’t like it. I assume that because Mr. Clay has better, richer lands than ours—a thriving farm even in the mountains—that my grandfather wants something from Mr. Clay. I’m just not sure what Mr. Clay wants from us, even though I have my suspicions.
“Hello, Mr. Clay,” my grandfather greets, tossing the leather strap on a nearby hay bale before walking over and hugging the other man. “It’s good to see you.”
Mr. Clay’s dark eyes move to me and roam from the top of my head down to my toes, lingering on different areas. Areas a gentleman wouldn’t linger on. Instinctually, I take a step back and touch the dagger at my side, even though I don’t know why. I’d never use the thing. At least, not against any of them.
They finish their hug, and then my grandfather frowns at me. My spine tightens, and my heart starts beating rapidly.I’ve done something wrong. I can’t have done something wrong. I already upset him. I already let the chicken get killed. I can’t… I can’t…
