Page 2 of Of Glass and of Gold

That was another time, when the love of my father softened that ice heart of hers. While she never made much of an effort to bond with me while he lived, she certainly shut me out after he died. Another mouth to feed in a time of upset, a child she never consented to raising on her own. Strange to think how it’d already been twelve years since he passed.

I stopped in front of the doorway. “Yes, Ma'am?” A forcibly ingrained title.

“I need you to go to the baker. The funds are on the kitchen counter.” Her eyes didn’t once lift from her needle and thread.

“Yes, Ma'am.”

“And don’t dawdle.” She breathed out an exasperated breath, as if all I ever did was purposely waste time and disappoint.

I started walking away before my gaze shot to the ceiling. My teen years taught me that if she ever caught my attitude, the back of my hands would pay the price. She hadn’t ridden a horse in years, none of us had, but that riding crop still served her well, evident by the lines striping my skin.

The coin purse rested near the flour jar, and I picked up the small pack. A tune played from the bag as the coins jingled against each other—the sound of freedom. While I knew there would be no more in the bag than the exact amount needed for the necessary loaves, I reveled in the sound. It meant not going to bed with hunger pains, at least for the better half of a week.

My steps became lighter as I floated through the house. Permission to leave the confines of her walls within the day hours before my chores were completed sent my heart aflutter. I wasted no time adorning a scratchy wool cloak and boots that had split apart at the seams. On silent feet, I raced down the stairs and out the door. Skipping down the front steps, I noticed a shift in the temperature. Spring teased its impending debut, and I couldn’t wait for the warmth.

Sure, I’d regret that come summer when my attic room became a furnace, but for now it was a relief I longed for. These streets were glacial in thin layers at night.

While I resented those that lived in the grand houses that surrounded ours, I was grateful that we hadn’t been forced to move yet, that I still had a roof over my head. Life had changed drastically after my father died, not only from grief, but from the way we’d been ostracized among our peers. Like being poor was some disease to catch. I tried not to let it get under my skin every time I walked the short, familiar path to the market square.

Vendors worked hastily at their stalls. The aroma of sizzling meat had my stomach groaning as I trudged past, wishing I could sink my teeth into juicy, tender filets.

A mother purchased a kabob for her pristinely dressed daughter. The young girl jumped up and down before taking the stick and chomping on the perfectly charred end. My father used to casually buy me things like that, and the memory upturned my lips.

My mouth watered as I watched satisfaction spread over the little girl's face, and reality reminded me that my circumstances were much different now.

He was a good man, Nora. A good father. That’s what matters.

Reciting that helped ebb the rising tide of anger that occasionally wanted to break the surface.

No more than two steps away from that little girl enjoying her food was a family of three huddled together between vendor stations. Their cloaks and jackets were caked in dirt, as were their faces. Tear stains marked the children’s cheeks, and I knew it was from hunger. The mother flitted her gaze between any passersby, pleading for mercy.

For scraps.

If I searched from where I stood, I knew I’d find dozens of other begging faces. It was the reason I tried not looking. We struggled alongside them, but fortunately, didn’t live in the clutches of homelessness. Guilt gnawed away at my attempt to rationalize why I couldn’t help.

Up ahead, noises from the gathered crowd grew in strength, an excuse to steal my attention. After rounding the corner, I could see someone on the platform in the town square speaking to the crowd.

“While we suffer down here, left to fend for ourselves, the wealthy sit in their golden towers and pass their days with gluttony and lethargy!” The man with long, graying hair stoked the throng of agreeable citizens to roar and pump their fists. He continued, and I threaded my way through the quickly accumulating bodies.

I finally reached the bakery stand. “Afternoon, Alejo. How are you today?”

“Good, Nora. Nice to see you. The usual order?” he asked.

“You bet.” I dropped the coin pouch, and he took it to count. Using the counter ledge to lean against, I returned my attention to the demonstration garnering excitable onlookers. “Think it’ll ever make a difference?” I asked over my shoulder without taking my eyes off the man on stage.

“I think people with a purpose can always make a difference,” he replied.

I ruminated on his sentiment, unsure if I believed it. For nearly a year, our village faced more than the regular hardships. Disappearances of members from our community were reported with no genuine effort to show from the prince’s guard to find them. They patrolled our streets, collected our taxes, and were the face of law. Yet, they acted as if people going missing didn’t fall under their purview.

Speaking of which, a few guards entered the square, recognizable by the glinting silver armor and blue painted crest. The crowd had grown so large that I doubted the speaker would have been able to spot their entrance. His flaring passion on the stage had me questioning if their presence would even matter to him at all, though it meant trouble.

The guards scrupulously assessed the situation, exchanging what appeared to be a plan of attack. Within moments, more guardsmen appeared, marching toward the stage. My body stiffened, seeing the impending altercation, but not being able to stop it.

The gray-haired man obviously hadn’t spotted their movement, even as they split to surround the stage, leaving him nowhere to run. He continued bashing the lack of support from the Crown, noting the hunger crisis, tax collection, The Coveted girl, and the kidnappings.

Acutely coordinated, the guardsmen closed in. Shared revolt dampened as they neared the stage. I spotted the moment the man on stage saw his fate. Guards stationed at both sets of stairs leading to the platform caged him as they approached.

We were all witness to the four guardsmen, two on either side, as they grabbed his arms. In one quick motion, they kicked the back of his knees and he crumbled to the floor.

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