Water. That is all I hear and feel… The sound of the waves as they crash into each other— and into me. I never learned how to swim; I never thought it would be necessary. I should have listened to Mother when she offered. Now that she is gone and the people of my hometown were after me, there wasn’t anywhere else for me to run. I only escaped because I have foreseen my fate if I was to stay in my village any longer— His Majesty wanted me dead. I gasp for air as I desperately clutch onto nothing, seawater getting into my mouth. That island off the coast… I must get to it at all costs, live a new life, away from the King! But the more I struggled in this vast, slick trap, the weaker I grew... Is this what being on the verge of death feels like? Will this be a painful way of passing? For once, I cannot see what will happen… How I wish it didn’t end this way. As my consciousness slowly drifts away, I feel numb. I succumb to the tossing and turning of the tides; it is the end for me.
“It is hither, coming through! Delivery for the one and only barmaid of Augborough, the beautiful Matilda,” I bellow, villagers moving out of the way as I slide the heavy cart I’m pulling to a halt right in front of the beerhouse, almost running into the stout, irritable, antiquated widow. “Straight from the brewery!” She turns to me, raising a bushy eyebrow at the wobbling barrels on the cart before nodding in approval. She then glowers at me, inspecting me up and down, and shrugs at the ends of my gown, which I have tied a little higher than usual, revealing the leather boots that reached my calves. She orders her sons to load the barrels into the local pub with a yell, her shrilling voice booming across the center of the village. Ah, good ol’ Matilda. “Gramercy, lass, yer timing is impeccable, as always! Here's ye payment, and— hold on, where is that blue-eyed lad? Ain’t he supposed to be with ye? That scobberlotcher leaving all the weight-liftin’ to the woman!” “At ease, Matilda
'Tis harvest season. Father and I had just finished threshing the last bit of wheat into the second bushel basket. He starts scooping the grain with a tin measuring cup as the sun began peeking over the horizon, pouring quarts of it into a small, separate bag— this is what we’re to keep. “Ah, it is time, Severin,” my father says, removing the coif off his head to wipe the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “Are ye ready to head into the neighboring village, son?” I peek into the bag he is holding and notice that the amount of grain in it is less than what he poured last time. “That will not be enough for us,” I state, pointing a finger at the bag. “I see no harm in adding another quart or two for ourselves, Father.” “Yer mother dislikes the grain we harvest, son. That is why two pecks of this grain is what we trade for vegetables; the other bushel is for Lord Davidson.” I twitch slightly at the mention of my “mother”. “She is not my mother, and she will never be. Moreover,
“Cheese…” my childhood friend mumbles to himself whilst I rip the bread I bought in half to share for the noontime meal. “It has been a while since I last bought whey.” “Well, if you were not frequently insistent on giving me most of your daily earnings and then running off before I refuse and return it to you, you would be able to buy some proper meals for you and your father, you stubborn oaf.” Nicolaus raises his forefinger at me, to hush me perchance, before leaning against the delivery cart. He spreads some of the cheese onto the bread with a small knife, heartily biting into the pastry before sighing in satisfaction. I lean on the cart next to him, watching him savor his meal. He then turns to me, with his mouth full, to tell me the same thing he has always told me ever since we were young: “It is more important that you and your family get fed.” I give the blonde a wry look and take a bite of my bread, savoring the crusty exterior. While he continues spreading an excessive
“Hells, Sapphire, I have told you, for the last time, to stay out of my bloody kitchen, you skelpie-limmer!” I hear the familiar, shrill voice of the woman I am supposed to call my mother shout from inside the hut. Father had left to trade in another village, and I had just returned from assisting one of our neighbors harvest their crops. I dash in to see what is happening, finding Sapphire being beaten by our stepmother with a thick piece of wood. Where in blazes did she get that?! Sapphire wails as every swing of the timber comes in contact with her body, causing large, red marks on her skin. “Stop,” I screech, reaching out to grab my sibling’s arm. “What are you doing?!” “Disciplining your beef-brained sister for constantly getting in my way! If she cannot learn how to cook for the family on her own, she is best off out of the kitchen, or dead!” Before Beatrice’s swing hits Sapphire once again, I rush in between them to wrap my arms around the poor, bruised child, and take th
Can things get any more difficult today? I think it can. “You want to confront the Eadmond Davidson?!” my childhood friend exclaims whilst doing our daily tasks. Today, we are transporting farmer George’s crops from his farm to his brother’s stall, which is on the other side of the village. “Could you be any louder, Nicolaus?” I retort with a scornful tone. “I do not think everyone heard you properly.” The blonde bows his head in embarrassment before pulling the cart faster. I keep up with his pace, whispering to him that I am being serious. After discovering the truth of who my father is three days ago, there has been nothing on my mind but meeting him in person. Not only do I have the chance of having a better life with my family, I may also be able to convince him and his father Lord Edgar to lessen the demand for crops every harvest to finally end Augborough’s famine. Every villager, young and old, may finally have filling meals every single day. Despite all the hard work we
“Right…” I mumble, eyeing my concoction in the glass bottle. “Many failed attempts and burning myself with that last one, however…” I pull the cork out of the glass cylinder, placing my folded hood upon my nose to prevent myself from inhaling another possible failure of an experiment. “Vaporo!” I exclaim, remembering to pronounce the spell precisely this time. The liquid in the bottle warms up in my hand and begins releasing haze. I keep my arm outstretched as the air in front of me becomes heavy and unclear, the mist settling around me. As the haze thickens, the liquid decreases— and when the bottle goes empty, the fog stays in the air. “I did it?” I think out loud, inspecting the empty glass in hand. “By the gods, I did it!” “What is with all the noise…?” I hear a voice behind me. Swiveling to find a groggy Sapphire by the door frame, I rush to her and cover her nose with my hood. “Don’t breathe in the fog!” Wide-eyed and possibly wide awake now, my sister replies with a muffle
“Are you out of your bloody mind, Maia?” my blue-eyed friend says, conveying his opinions about my schemes. “Death?! It seems to me that you will be the one on the other end of that blade!” “If Lord Edgar claims that his son, my father, slayed my mother, I believe 'tis just proper that someone does something about this injustice.” “But assassinating the nobleman?!” I fall silent, unable to look into my friend’s eyes. ‘Tis the early hours of the morn, and the full moon has only begun to set. Uncle Wyatt reprimanded me yesternight while drunk on ale for confronting the Davidsons. Eustace, who had apparently been aware of my intentions, is sleeping soundly with him inside the house, while my childhood friend and I are outside our doors, conversing about yesterday’s events: Lord Edgar himself admitted that he had ordered his son, Lord Eadmond, to murder an innocent woman he had impregnated— my mother, who resorted to prostitution to feed her family— to prevent a scandal in the past. D