Mab is a freelance author, you can support them on:

As the elderly couple walked, with Abigail quietly trailing behind, the buildings grew fewer, and the dirt path gradually turned into a beaten trail. Signs of civilization faded as the route led deeper into the wilderness. Even as they climbed a steep, grassy hill, the old man kept on rambling, neither he nor his wife showing a lick of weariness.

From the hilltop, Abigail glanced back at the Lamra district below. Nestled among the mountains, the town was hemmed in by walls on two sides and split down the middle by a broad road. Beast-drawn carriages trudged along it, stopping at checkpoints where soldiers poked around in their loads, like they were looking for something—or someone. Abigail didn’t linger on the sight. She turned away and kept on the couple’s trail.

As they strolled down a gravel path, Johannes suddenly piped up, “Margaret, you walkin’ funny or somethin’? Why’s it sound like there’s extra footsteps comin’ from you?”

“Lords a mercy,” Margaret muttered, crossing herself. “Don’t be foolin’ with me like that, Johannes. Ain’t no call fer it.”

“I ain’t foolin’, woman. I heard it plain as day. We been on our own since town, so unless somebody’s been sneakin’ along behind us—” Johannes twisted round, his eyes going wide as he caught sight of Abigail. “—Well, I’ll be.”

Margaret stopped dead in her tracks, turning to see what got him spooked. “Oh, goodness me,” she gasped, her hand flying to her chest.

Seeing the couple stop, Abigail halted as well, tilting her head in quiet confusion.

For a moment, silence hung between them before Margaret stepped toward Abigail. “Where you from, dear? Got someplace you’re headin’? This road don’t lead nowhere, y’know.”

“I’m from… the town,” Abigail replied hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You been followin’ us all the way from town?” Johannes asked sharply, his gaze dropping to her bare feet.

Abigail gave a small nod, saying nothing more.

Margaret glanced back at her husband, worry etched on her face. “What’re we supposed to do, Johannes? Reckon folks in town are out lookin’ fer her. Should we turn back?”

“And who’s gonna feed the pigs while we’re galavantin’ back there?” Johannes shot back, shaking his head. “I ain’t trekkin’ to town twice in one day. Too much fuss. ‘Sides, don’t look like the girl’s got anybody waitin’ on her.”

Abigail indeed looked no better than a slum dweller. Her entire body was caked in grime, the result of years spent sleeping underground. Her tattered hospital gown, once white, was now stained brown and black, barely holding together. While her flawless silver hair might have seemed striking under different circumstances, most of it was concealed beneath the brown coat draped over her shoulders. Only the tips, dragging along the dirt, peeked out from underneath. One glance was enough to assume she had no one left in this world.

“So what, we just leave the poor girl here on her lonesome? Not on my watch,” Margaret said, taking Abigail’s hand in hers.

“I didn’t say that, fer cryin’ out loud,” Johannes huffed, his tone as gruff as ever. He squinted at Abigail, then at Margaret, who wasn’t budging an inch on helping her. With a click of his tongue, he muttered, “Tsk. Fine. Take her to the house. Reckon we can get Jacob or somebody else to haul her back to town later this evenin’.”

He turned and started stomping down the trail again, grumbling under his breath, “She thinks we’re runnin’ a charity, fer lord’s sake.”

“Don’t pay him no mind; he’s just all bark, no bite,” Margaret said with a warm smile. “I’m Margaret, and that ol’ grump up there’s my husband, Johannes. What’s yer name, darlin’?”

“I’m Abby… Abigail,” she answered softly.

♢♦♢♦♢

Johannes and Margaret’s house was a small cottage nestled in the middle of an open field. Behind the house stood a barn, its fenced yard bustling with chickens pecking at the ground and pigs rooting around lazily. As the couple approached the property, Abigail noticed a dog perk up its ears from where it had been napping under the canopy. It bolted toward them in a flurry of excitement.

“Git, boy! I ain’t got time fer yer nonsense!” Johannes scolded, though the dog paid him no mind, circling him and the donkey with its tail wagging furiously. “I’ll give ya yer treat after I get ol’ Dusty here in his shed. Now, scram!”

“Arf!” the dog barked happily before trotting after Johannes toward the barn.

As Abigail watched, Margaret gently tugged her hand. “Come on now, dear. Let’s get ya cleaned up proper.”

When Margaret swung the door open, Abigail was greeted by an assortment of root vegetables hanging from wooden beams overhead—carrots, onions, garlic, fennel, sunchokes, and others she couldn’t name. By the entrance stood a small kitchen: a narrow cabinet packed with utensils beside a tiled sink, with a tub of water tucked into the corner. On the windowsill, a bowl of meat pie rested, cooling in the breeze. Nearby, the fireplace held fading embers, with a pot of soup suspended above them. A small rectangular table sat in the middle, surrounded by three mismatched chairs.

The wooden floor creaked under Abigail’s bare feet as Margaret guided her deeper into the house. Curtains served as partitions between rooms, and a staircase led up to the attic. Their destination, however, was the back of the house, where the “wet area” was—a space cluttered with dirty laundry and two doors facing each other. One opened to the outside, the other to a modest washroom.

“Now, get in there an’ give yerself a proper scrub,” Margaret said, gently nudging Abigail toward the washroom. She handed her a rough, greenish-grey block of soap that fit snugly in her palm. “You know how to use soap, darlin’?”

Abigail nodded. Though the coarse block was nothing like the fragrant soaps she once knew in a life she could barely remember, she had an idea of what to do.

“Good girl. I’ll leave ya a change o’ clothes outside. Just holler when yer done—I’ll be out in the barn helpin’ Johannes with the pigs.” With that, Margaret shut the door.

Abigail glanced around the cramped, dim room. It wasn’t even two meters wide all around, with a simple hole in the wall serving as a drain and a wooden barrel full of water, a ladle floating on top. It was a far cry from the opulence of an onsen, yet something about its simplicity felt calming.

Finally alone, Abigail removed Hildara’s coat and the old hospital gown and began to wash, ladling water over herself and scrubbing away years of dirt and grime.

♢♦♢♦♢

Johannes stood in the barn, gripping a rake that had seen better days. The wooden handle was worn smooth from years of use, and one of the metal tines wobbled with every pull, threatening to snap off entirely. He worked the rake methodically across the straw-strewn floor, gathering clumps of manure into a growing pile. The earthy smell hung thick in the air, mingling with the faint scent of damp wood and livestock.

“Tsk. Damn rake’s got no fight left in it,” he muttered, tapping the handle against his palm. “Ain’t made tools like they used to.”

A wet slop echoed behind him, and Johannes turned, startled. There was Margaret, pouring pig feed into the trough.

“When’d you get here?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Just in time to hear you bellyaching,” she replied, not looking up. “Less gripin’ and more workin’, an’ maybe we’ll get that new rake you’ve been whinin’ about.”

“Why I oughta bust my back just to buy somethin’ that’s gonna make me bust it all over again? Don’t seem right, if you ask me,” Johannes muttered, clicking his tongue as he went back to raking. After a stretch of silence, he spoke up again. “How’s the girl?”

“Fine,” Margaret replied, hefting another bucket of pig feed. “Don’t look hurt or sick. Healthy enough to walk to town an’ back, far as I can tell.”

“She ain’t goin’ back to town,” Johannes said, voice firm. “I’ll have Jacob take her to Havenna first thing tomorrow.”

“What?” Margaret stopped, eyes wide. “What d’you mean she ain’t goin’ back to town? You plannin’ somethin’ no good, Johannes?”

“I ain’t plannin’ nothin’, woman,” Johannes retorted, gesturing toward the house. “Just look at her. She ain’t starvin’ or sick, but she’s dirtier than a sewer rat. Got a fine jacket on her back but not a single shoe to her name. That ain’t no slum kid—that’s an escaped slave. Takin’ her back to Lamra’d be like handin’ her straight back to her captors on a silver platter.”

Margaret fell silent, chewing over his words as Johannes pressed on.

“‘Sides, she sure as sin ain’t from ‘round here. Grey hair, oval face, big eyes, small mouth. That’s a Cimmerian if I ever seen one. Betcha they smuggled her over to Yariah by boat, probably fixin’ to haul her up to Havenna. Lord knows where them dragons’d ship her off to next—could be anywhere in the world.” He gave the rake a deliberate pull, his voice firm. “And the mayor here? She’s a sucker fer coins. She’d stuff that gold up her fart hole if she could. Suppose we put the girl in a proper orphanage, she’d just sell her off again, no question. That’s why we gotta get her to Havenna. They got a proper immigrant town there—she’d fit in.”

“She can’t be Cimmerian,” Margaret shook her head, skeptical. “Ruthen’s halfway ‘cross the world. Why’d anyone go to all that trouble for one girl?”

“Excuse me, I’m finished washing,” came a soft voice, drawing both their attention.

Abigail stood in the barn’s doorway, transformed. Her pale skin, now free of grime, seemed to glow softly, smooth and unblemished like polished stone. Her jade green eyes, framed by thick lashes, held an otherworldly calm, their depth arresting. Her features were delicately refined—an oval face, a gentle nose, and lips that carried a natural blush. The simple white long-sleeved shirt she wore hung lightly on her slender frame, its crisp fabric lending her an understated elegance.

Her silver hair, shimmering in soft waves, tumbled down her back and trailed lightly on the dirt and straw-covered floor, a silent reminder of how out of place she seemed here.

Johannes paused, taking in the sight of her. “Well, that oughta be why,” he muttered, half to himself.

⇐ Previous

Next ⇒

⌈ Index ⌋