Month: January 2018

The night wind stirs the curtains. I can hear the sounds of revelry below, the guards enjoying their night of freedom. Tomorrow they bind themselves to a new mistress, one they are sure will be less harsh, less exacting than their old master. No wonder they sound so festive.

I lean against the window frame, looking out over the city. My city. Tomorrow I swear an oath, take a crown, that will wed us together. An unmarried queen and a city tired of blood. To the people, to the guards and the soldiers, to the slaves in the marketplace and the nobles in their marble halls, my father was a tyrant, a murderer, and a vindictive god. Only I—his eldest daughter—saw him for what he was.

A pawn.

The tool of better men than he, men who charmed with silver tongues and ruled through his stupidity, his weakness. They murdered him in his bed in favor of his weak-willed daughter, a woman they were sure would be easier to manipulate than he was. Tomorrow they set a silver crown on my hair, place his signet ring on my hand, and with these chains in place, call for all men to bow their heads to me, their stupid puppet queen.

But I have no tolerance for chains and whispered threats. When they bow their heads, my men—the men I have amassed, the men who swear fealty and love to me, the men I have spent years collecting in secret—will slit their throats. And the puppet queen will hold her own strings.

We wait until Mother’s car is out of sight around the bend before we slip out of the house. Maisie wants to go down to the creeks and go fishing, but I’ve been wanting to go to the old orchard ever since I started smelling autumn in the breeze and listening to the geese calling as they flew over our farm. We can go to the creek anytime, or at least anytime Mother isn’t around to catch us.

But the apples are only ripe once a year, and they’ll be picked and stored in another few days.

We take the long way around, by the front gate and the road, to reach the orchard. When we were younger, we’d run across the fields and climb the fence, but my chair won’t get through the rough ground, so we take the long way. Maisie climbs the trees for me now, and I catch the apples she drops down. Even if I can’t climb, it’s nice just to be outside, to smell the wind and see the blue skies. Mother doesn’t let me outside unless she’s taking me into town to see the doctor. She’d be furious if she caught us out here, especially alone, but apples taste better in the orchard.

Besides, she won’t be home until dark, and Maisie won’t tell. We’re closer than siblings now that I’m stuck in my chair, closer than most boys are with their baby sisters. Sometimes I forget that she’s all of eight years younger than I am. She climbs the trees for me, and I teach her how to tie a hook and bobber and whittle a willow whistle. If Mother knew half the things we got up to together, she’d lock Maisie out of my room for good.

But she won’t be home until dark. So we’ve got time.

The nurse leaves the window open when she goes out. For fresh air, she tells me, but I’m sick of fresh air. Just once, I would like to fall asleep without shivering. But we are poor, sick little darlings, and we don’t know what’s good for us, so the window stays open.

She locks the door behind her when she leaves, same as she does for all the children here, but the locks are simple. I learned to pick them in the first week, and I have no intention of staying in a cold room all alone tonight. I wait until I can’t hear her footsteps any longer, and then I leave.

The halls are quiet. Even the nurses have gone to bed by now, or are on their rounds, and I pad quietly down the hall to Emma’s room.

She’s waiting for me, sitting up in her bed. They’ve left her window open too, poor dear, but it will be warmer together. I climb in next to her and kiss her pale cheek. She’s sicker than I am. The doctors think I have a chance of recovering, at least for a little while, since TB never really goes away, but Emma isn’t so lucky as I am. She’s been here much longer, and they don’t expect her to ever leave.

But still, even for all their fussing and pity, Emma is still happy. She smiles more than anyone I’ve ever met in my whole life, in the sanitarium or out of it, and she never complains. Even about the open windows. We cuddle together beneath her blankets to keep warm, and she strokes my thin hair and tells me every story she’s ever heard, and a few she made up on her own.

I fall asleep to the sound of her hoarse voice, and not even the cold wakes me up again.

The fireplace is empty. Frost is creeping up the glass of the windows. It’s dark now, so dark that I can’t see the garden fence outside the kitchen window, but they’re still not home.

They should have been home hours ago. Before supper, Mother told me when she climbed into the wagon. Certainly in enough time to light the fires before it grew too cold.

I breathe onto the window pane, melting the frost, and peer outside. I can’t see the road, not anymore, but they would have a lantern on the wagon. I look for the glow among the trees, but there is nothing. Only darkness, and the frost already crawling up the panes again.

“They’ll come, child. Don’t worry so,” Amma tells me. I climb down from the counter and pad across the cold kitchen to sit at her feet. I fetched her shawl for her an hour since, tucking it neatly around her thin shoulders, and her knitted blanket covers her knees. Her hands are cold. She strokes my cheek, my hair, and I feel her trembling. She can’t get up from her chair, not anymore, and I’ve never lit a fire alone. I brought her the lamp to light, but the fire’s too much for either of us. We’ll have to wait.

She tells me stories while the lamp burns low. The frost creeps higher, painting cold pictures on the window glass until I can’t see outside any longer. My hands are stiff with cold when the door finally blows open with a gust of wind, and Mother sweeps into the room, her cheeks red with cold and a thousand apologies for each of us as she kisses our cheeks and lays a fire. She’ll leave again tomorrow, for her work, but maybe she’ll teach me to lay a fire before she goes.