Page 4 of Ruby & Onyx

Another week or two won’t hurt.

I fasten the belt just above my waist and tie the coin purse to it. As I pull on my old leather boots, I notice that I can feel the cold stone floor on my toes. I’ve been saving up for a new pair, but money is tight right now.

The woodwork pieces that I sell in the market every week aren’t selling like they used to. The day that I can no longer sell those silly little figurines was bound to come sooner or later. There are fewer than a thousand people in Carcera, and each person can only buy so many pieces. I’ll have to get more creative if I want to keep turning a profit.

Fortunately, I still receive my father’s pension payments from Lord Myles. It’s only ten silvers per week, but those who struggle would appreciate even a quarter of that kindness. Many people, especially those born without such good graces, question the gesture’s fairness since most pensions end after a couple of years. At every turn of the sun, I hold my breath and pray that the funds don’t run dry. But the money keeps flowing. It must be an accounting error, but far be it from me to point that out. I’ll continue to hold my breath each month as I wait for the courier to arrive with my coins.

As I leave the cottage, an odd feeling creeps into my fingertips. It tingles and pulls, like a tether tugging me away – to where, I don’t know.

I study the garden intently, looking for signs of motion, but the remarkable stillness leads me to question my sanity. This morning must be making me paranoid. I realize that my fists are clenched into a tight ball once I feel the sharp pang of nails digging into my palms. I open my hands wide and force a deep inhale.

Coffee. I need my coffee.

* * *

The market’s cream-colored tarps hang overhead, drooping so low in some parts that I have to duck. Tables line up side by side in rectangular patterns. The vendors in the first section are quiet today, for the most part. Some are drunk and rumbling, slumped over in chairs. The few that I recognize cast side-eyed glances, the others ignore me completely. I don’t take offense, though.

When I move into the second section, which is much larger and better supported, a toothless man stops in front of me, pressing his clay pots into my face like the aggressive force might somehow convince me to cough over a few silvers.

It won’t.

“Sorry, sir,” I say as I push past him, reminding myself to keep my eyes on the floor. He mutters something indecipherable that must be an insult. When the market isn’t busy, like today, sellers get aggressive. When I sell my pieces here, I try to do the exact opposite – quietly allowing people to pass, knowing that the pieces sell themselves. Well, typically they do. My current downturn is just a fluke, a minor setback. Not at all indicative of my skills, surely.

This is my first time seeing this particular vendor, but it’s not the first time I’ve experienced such treatment. The vendors can be a wild bunch. I elbow my way past him and trudge forward. I move so quickly that I run directly into a man thin enough to see his collar bones protruding from beneath his tunic. He startles and then his cheeks flame. “Radya,” he says quietly.

Is that Marco? He was a couple of years ahead of me in school, but we shared the same teacher. He looks different – more sickly and frail. Almost unrecognizable.

Hoping that I’m mistaken, I ask, “Marco?”

He nods, folding his arms across his chest and staring at his dusty bare feet in the dirt. I never knew him to be bashful, though I of all people know how the wounds of time can scar a person.

“Is everything okay?” Judging by the looks of him, the answer is a definitive no.

“Yes.” When he looks up, his whole face sags and his bony shoulders slump. “No. The butcher fired me last year. Then last month, a pack of concos destroyed my garden. Now I have…” he chokes. “Nothing.”

Though it’s been years since we last spoke, his appearance cracks open something in my chest. Be it pity or outrage, I’m not sure. But I already watched one man suffer the consequences of starvation today. I refuse to stand by helplessly while another man falls victim to it, especially when I don’t deserve the life-giving pension awarded to me each month.

“Here,” I say as I reach into my coin purse and hand him ten coins, leaving only one for the coffee. It’s not much in the long run, but it’s a start. New boots can wait, his need for sustenance cannot. I can see it in his eyes, how long he’s waited.

It’s clear that his pride wants to deny the help but his grumbling stomach yelps its thanks.

“I’ll see you at Beorscia?” Ten coins plus the feast tomorrow will keep him alive for a little while longer. I’ll check in on him next month to be sure.

“Yes,” he says quietly.

“Great!” I smile and turn away, waiting until I hear a coin land on the meat vendor’s counter before I start moving.

* * *

The coffee vendor’s stall, where coffee beans, mangoes, and papayas are placed neatly into woven baskets, looks the same as it always does when I arrive. Paul is hunched over the grinder, churning away.

“Good morning,” I say, forcing a grin so wide that my cheeks hurt.

He turns over his shoulder to look at me, still bent to a near ninety-degree angle. He waves an acknowledging hand and mumbles something under his breath before turning back to his station. Despite my best attempts at flattery and smiles, his cranky disposition never changes. Well, maybe not my best attempts, but I do make an effort to be cordial on most days.

Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, as they say.

“Lovely morning, isn’t it?” I try again, shoving down the thought that this morning has been anything but lovely.

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