Page 1 of The Wolf in My Tavern

Chapter One

Ada

“Git me some supper, daughter,” my father slurs as he bangs open the door and staggers into the tiny room we call home.

It has been a long day, and I’m chilled to the bone, my threadbare clothes and worn shawl having offered no protection from the frigid sleet that pelted me during my walk home.

I’m exhausted after working all day for a pittance at the fish markets of Bleakness. I’ve not had a chance to light even a small fire.

My father’s limited patience won’t allow for that now. He backhands me when I do not move swiftly enough for his liking, sending me bowling into the table. The corner stabs my hip, and I gasp as it catches a bruise—just one of many from his constant abuse.

I hate my father.

I hate my life.

Yet this pitiful residence—this hovel—but a single room is a million times better than sleeping on the streets.

I hasten to fetch the pitcher I brought home and collect bowls and spoons from the shelf. Supper tonight, as it often is, has come via the pauper’s kitchen—vegetable and fish stew—and some bread the baker’s lad slipped to me as I passed his shop at closing time. It was burnt on one side and would usually be tossed away, but he will often save any spoiled bread for me, for he knows my situation.

I don’t have any coin. The money I make gutting fish goes straight to the local tavern via my father’s pockets. I tried keeping a bit aside once and copped a beating for my trouble.

I set a bowl in front of him as he slumps into the single rickety chair at the table shoved against one wall. Next, I pour stew for us both and slice up the bread, placing some beside his bowl. He grunts as he rips off a chunk of the burnt bread and dunks it into his stew.

My brief smile is one of quiet victory that I gave him the worst of the bread.

My lip throbs where he hit me—my hip throbs too. My fingers ache from gutting fish all day. The stench is all up in my nose, making me want to hurl the other bowl of stew at the wall.

Only, I’m hungry; so although I’m sick of the sight of fish, I take my bowl and a crust of bread to the corner of the room where I have my bedding nook. It’s not much: a few layers of old blankets with some straw underneath to provide a little padding, with a grubby curtain that can be pulled across to offer a token sense of privacy.

My father eats his food in silence. The only good thing about him drinking is that he will be asleep once he finishes his food, snoring loudly in his bed.

Sometimes, I wish he’d never come back; that he’d fall into a gutter—drunk—and stay there with the rest of the filth where he belongs. But I’m not stupid. I know that his protection is better than being alone.

For this is Bleakness: a city under a cloud of despair where the strong prey on the weak. My father is a vile man who spends our small earnings in the local tavern on a Friday and Saturday night, yet he is stronger than me and shelters me from worse predators. He works in the infamous slave markets, doing the bidding of the Blighten masters. Human prisoners are gathered from the far corners of the world and then brought here for distribution or sale. Common sense has always kept me away from that area, but everyone who lives here is aware of the shady dealings and despair traded in the underground complex by the docks.

As I finish my food, I hear the scrape of the chair and the shuffle of footsteps as my father lumbers to his bed. I rise, rinsing off the chipped crockery before I wash up.

By the time I have set our tiny home to rights, the rattle of his snores fills the room.

I unbuckle my shoes, which have seen too many repairs and won’t last me through this coming winter, remove my woolen dress, and, blowing out the candle, slip underneath the thin blankets.

My breath makes a cloud before my eyes, and I shiver, willing warmth into my body. It is dark save for a shaft of moonlight that spills through the small, dirty window.

Closing my eyes, I wish myself away.

I’ve never seen a forest in person, but at the very top of the warehouse where I prepare fish, there is a small attic window and, on a clear day, you can see over the city wall to the distant mountains with thick forests lining the lower slopes.

Bleakness has no trees, only the wood that comes from them. It is hard to imagine what it is like to be underneath the canopy of trees, but I envision a magical place that does not suffer from the smell of fish nor the scent of tar and sweat, a place where creatures I have never met exist, like rabbits, deer, and wolves.

Tucked in the corner underneath my rough bed is an old picture book that I found dropped in the gutter near one of the fancier houses in the city. A few pages have been ripped, but the rest are whole, if a bit grubby. In summer, when there is still evening light, I hide in my bedding nook and trace my fingers over the forest pictures. Although I can’t read the words, I make up a tale to go with the images on the pages.

I often wonder how someone’s trash came to be my most prized possession, an innocent storybook that has become a source of joy and bitterness in me. I want such a life, yet I understand it shall never be for me, that I am doomed to spend forever here under the shadow of my father’s abuse, gutting fish, taking a beating, and fearing what comes next.

I’m getting older, a woman now, and sometimes I see my father’s cronies leering at me.

My father only laughs when it happens.

At some point, one of them will do more.

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