Sara
It’s strange how a morning that starts out like every other, can lead to a day that changes everything.
As I made the walk to the market, the spring sunlight glinted on the murky well water sitting in a line of buckets near the stables. The cobblestones clicked under horses hooves. The air smelled of wood smoke and cooked meat, while the chatter of the washerwomen sounded light and friendly.
As I moved among them, looking for the seamstress, Matilda, I smiled and said cheerful hellos to the women who were busy at work.
“Do you know where Matilda is?” I asked Annie Patrick.
“Haven’t seen her yet today.” She nodded to a spot next to her on the edge of a stone wall. “Come, sit with us a while.”
I shook my head. “I wish I could. I have to find Matilda and get back home. My father—”
“Milo works you too hard. He should be grateful you put up with his horseshit.” Annie replied, her work worn face screwing up into a knot.
Laughter rang out from the other women, and I blushed at the colorful language.
“He’s not that bad,” I said, knowing only too well that he was worse than they all thought, but that telling them about it would be as detrimental to my own reputation as his. I knew what they thought of him. A drunkard and a bully. And lazy.
It was my many jobs to collect eggs from the chickens and bring them to town to sell every morning, and that meant rising before any of the rest of the family, my mother included. What no one knew was the way my father spoke to me, , especially in the early mornings when we were alone.
He was becoming more daring, more putrid and this morning he pushed even farther.
“Good morning, father.” I’d kept my voice low as I cleared his bowl and mug.
A caught a glimpse of his yellow teeth as he sucked air through his cracked lips. “Thank you for breakfast, Sara.” Eyes glancing down at my bodice, my hips. “Delicious.”
“I—it was no trouble.” Slipping past him, the scent of his sour breath in my nostrils, the touch of his hands on my waist, sliding lower… “I have to go.”
“Oh, no rush. The eggs can wait. You could sit with me a while, by the fire, let me play with your…hair.”
“No, I—I’ll get the best price for the eggs if I’m early. It’s like you always say, father, the early bird catches the worm.”
“You’ll catch my worm, one of these days, early or no…”
I shivered at the memory, sick to my stomach, knowing if I hadn’t hurried down the path with my basket of eggs things might have gone from bad to worse very quickly.
“I have to go,” I said to the women, glancing around, wondering where I might find Matilda. She’d shown me the bullion knot twice already, but despite my apparent natural talent for embroidery I was still struggling to master it. If I didn’t find her soon though, I’d have to go home and try again tomorrow.
Many more chores awaited me and if I lingered too long, there would be consequences at home.
“You might try her ladyship,” Annie suggested with a grin. “Tilda said she was hassling for new dresses for her daughters.”
I nodded, turning toward the side street that headed up to the jeweler’s shop and wondering if I should go that way or wait to speak to Matilda tomorrow.
Her Ladyship was the nickname they’d given Ginnie Waterford, who’d married well and no longer liked to associate with the poorer residents. She wouldn’t appreciate me sullying her presence, but I couldn’t wait here for Matilda to return.
It was just as I’d decided to leave and head home that I heard the sound of thundering hooves.
Not a particularly unusual sound. Carts and traveling salesmen were a common enough sight in Weschail, and most of the farms and smallholdings around the town, ours included, had a horse or two.
But something tugged me back around, something drew me to the sound. It was like there was a thread connecting me to whoever was riding our way, and it had just been pulled tight. I waited, holding my next breath, staring at the corner of the town square, my heart in my throat as the sound drew nearer.
And once I’d seen him, nothing was the same again. I knew that instant that this morning, was different. Everything was about to change, I just wasn’t sure exactly how.
He was a brawny, dark man, riding a chestnut stallion with the reckless speed of either a gifted horseman or a careless fool, the reins held loosely in one enormous hand with coarse dark hair sprouting from the tanned flesh.
His brooding eyes connected with mine from under a jutting brow, and while I wanted desperately to turn away, I found I could not. I was held, captive, like a rabbit caught in a snare, waiting for the huntsman to claim me as his own.