Page 2 of The Wolf in My Tavern

At some point, my father might let them.

I have no mother or recollection of her, even distant, to which I might cling. Only my father and his ready fists.

The sound of his snoring is familiar. How I hate that sound. How I hate the man.

Through a tear in my nook curtain, I can see the tiny window and the pale moon. The same moon looks down upon a distant forest where rabbits and foxes play. It is the same moon for a poor girl in Bleakness or a princess in a fancy castle.

I wear rags and have holes in my shoes that I have repaired more times than I can count, while I imagine a princess wears silk gowns and eats cake. Yet we live under a single moon, and, somehow, that connects us.

My lip still throbs, and so does my hip. My hands and feet are cold. My lips are permanently cracked from the harsh weather and life, and my hands are covered in nicks as I try to work faster to prepare more fish, which lends itself to mistakes. I feel ground down by life, and although I try to claw out of this terrible pit and make a couple more coins that I might hide from my father, nothing I do is enough.

I am trapped by circumstances, by my place of birth, and a cruel father who uses up what little I have. That there is worse in this city terrifies me and makes me feel trapped even more.

Sometimes, I imagine running down the streets, all the way to the gate, and then through it. Out—running and running until I find the forest.

Only I’ve never been to the gate. The only places I go to are between here and the fish markets, and I don’t linger in between.

The gate seems impossibly far away.

The forest even more so.

My sleep is fitful, and when I rise and peer out the tiny window, I see rooftops blanketed by snow. I don’t like snow much. It is cold and wet, seeping through the holes I’ve repaired in my shoes and making my toes numb on the short walk from home to the fish market.

The sun has barely risen, and the clouds are low, dark, and billowing. Yet the snowy blanket makes this ugly city look beautiful, and I find wonder in that.

How can such a lost place hold such heartbreaking beauty?

I want to soak it up, store it in my heart, forget how it makes my toes numb and the biting chill waiting for me outside that will sting the cracks in my lips and find the weak spots in my winter shawl.

“What are you gazing at, lass? Put yer shoes on. We need to go.”

I turn to find my father shrugging into his coat.

I frown. He is usually gone by now.

“Shoes, lass,” he grunts.

A strange premonition of danger increases my heart rate. I hasten to do as he says lest I incur his wrath or fist. No sooner have I buckled my shoes and snatched up my woolen shawl than he fists my arm and directs me toward the door.

“Don’t give me no trouble, Ada.”

Fear seizes my heart as he swings open the door and thrusts me through the gap. He doesn’t let go all the way down the rickety stairs and along the passages, even when we are out in the snow.

“Where are we going?”

I’m freezing already. The sky is dark and heavy looking, and little snowflakes touch against my skin and melt as I’m marched down the cobbled streets that are already white from the falling snow. He ignores me. There is an emptiness in his eyes. I don’t meet his gaze often, but as he stops to let a cart go by and turns to look down at me, I know a new level of fear.

“Old enough,” he says, his gaze raking over me critically, “to earn me some decent coin.”

Horror lodges in my throat, robbing me of my voice as the cart passes. Then he continues dragging me with him, his fingers locked tight on my arm.

“No!” I beat at him and try to pry his cruel fingers away.

He shakes me. “Quieten down, lass. Draw attention, and you’ll regret it.”

The dread that settles in the pit of my belly tells me I will regret not fighting more, for I recognize the route he brings me is not to the fish market, but somewhere far worse. A swift blow to my stomach takes the fight and breath from me. Tightening his grip on my arm, he continues on. His steps are brisk, and I stumble, tripping here and there. Not that he cares.

As an imposing stone building looms before us, my anxiety soars.

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