Chapter 1 

Wendy

I stir the pale sickly bahru in the rusted pot, a meager supper of hot water and whatever is left dying in the vegetable bed. The weak fire hisses, filling the room with a sour, green scent.

Amelie sits on the rug by my feet, knees hugged to her chest, her wool dress patched at every seam. Leo’s head rests in her lap. His eyes, wide and brown and fever-bright, track the wooden spoon as it scrapes the bottom of the pot, searching for substance that isn’t there. 

“Mama?” he asks, and the word is a wisp, barely a sound, but it gouges a furrow through my resolve.

“Almost ready, my love,” I say, and force the corners of my mouth up. I turn away so they don’t see the lie in my eyes, only the soft echo of a smile that means nothing.

Outside, the wind rattles the shutters and tries the door, a hungry beast that circles the house with every gust. I glance at the latch, set with a bit of twine and a hope. It’s not the wind I fear.

The rug beneath the children is threadbare, a faded blue that remembers being royal, now trampled into submission by years of boots and spilled ale. I kneel beside them, and Amelie’s hand snakes up to tangle in my skirt, anchoring me to the spot. 

She’s six, old enough to know the shape of want, too young to have words for it. Her hand is icy. I fold her fingers in mine and blow warmth into her palm.

“Is Daddy coming home soon?” Amelie asks. 

I am sure if I said no; that would make her smile. Instead I tell the truth, “Yes, Daddy will be home soon.”

I watch Leo’s hand grab Amelie’s and I wish the three of us were far, far away. 

The door explodes inward, riding a blast of cold and snow and the stink of wet wool. Edmund fills the frame, shoulders stooped, beard bristling with ice. His eyes are two black stones set deep, rimmed by red, glittering with purpose and malice both. 

The wind howls around him, but he stands rooted, surveying the room with the practiced scorn of a man used to disappointment.

“Supper?” he says, voice slurring already.  

I try to smile, keep my voice placid. “In the pot, Edmund.”

“Bahru?” He lumbers toward the hearth, boots scattering cinders across the pine floor, and rips the ladle from my hand. “And I have to serve it myself like some shit shoveler?” 

The fist comes fast, knuckles split and scabbed. My head jerks sideways and the room lurches with it. For a moment, the only sound is the squeal of my cheek against my teeth and the scrape of bone on bone. Blood spatters the fire, hissing, gone.

I do not fall. I do not cry.

Amelie whimpers, a sound like a strangled bird, and Leo buries his face in her skirt. I straighten, one hand on the mantel, and look Edmund in the eye. “The meat ran out three days ago. We have no money to buy food. There’s nothing left, Edmund.”

He stares at me, breathing heavy. For a second, I see the man he was, before the snows and the years and the empty bottles. Then he turns away, stumbling for the battered armchair in the corner, where the dregs of his ale bottle wait like an old friend. He drops into the seat and the wood sighs beneath him.

 “Useless,” he mutters. “All of you.”

I cross the room, gather the children, fold them into my arms. I sink down onto the cold boards, pulling them close, as if proximity alone can shield them from the day, from him, from the gnaw of hunger that knots their bellies. I rock them gently, letting my hair curtain my face so they can’t see the flush rising where the fist landed.

Amelie reaches up, thumb tracing the swelling. “Does it hurt, Mama?” she whispers.

“Only a little,” I say. “I’m tough as taura hide, remember?”

 She nods, solemn. “You could fight a batlaz, Mama.”

 I tousle her hair, and pretend to growl. “Maybe I have.”

Leo giggles, a sound so rare I want to snatch it from the air and keep it for later. He’s all angles and elbows, the way hungry children always are, but he finds my hand and presses it to his cheek. “Will we eat now?”

“Of course,” I say, and rise. The world tilts; I blink, steady myself. At the hearth, I scoop the bahru into three wooden bowls, careful to divide it fairly. There’s nothing left for Edmund, but he’s asleep already, head back, mouth wide, snoring like a beast in shit.

I set the bowls on the rug. The children eat with their heads down, sipping quietly, licking every drop from the wood as if it might vanish otherwise. I watch them, count the ribs beneath their sleeves, the blue shadows beneath their eyes. My own hunger is a distant, familiar ache. I ignore it.

In the silence, the fire dies to ember. The wind outside grows bold, rattling the walls with fists of sleet. I gather up the bowls, set them in the wash bucket, and return to the children.

Amelie’s eyelids droop, lashes fluttering. She leans into my side and I wrap her up, pull the wool blanket over both children. Leo falls asleep instantly, his small hand still clutching my finger.

I hold them, listening to the rise and fall of their breath, the slow ticking of the clock, the monstrous snoring from the corner. I hold them and do not move, though my jaw throbs and my bones beg for rest. Outside, the storm rages, but here in this meager circle of warmth, I am the bulwark. I am the fire. I am the wall.

Tomorrow, I will find a way to feed them. I will wake before dawn, and walk the frozen lane to the neighbors, and beg for bones, or crusts, or mercy. But tonight I will hold them, and that is enough.

I whisper into Amelie’s hair. “Everything will be all right, sweetling. I promise.”

She sighs, soft and trusting. “I know, Mama.”

The lie is bitter, but I feed it to myself, swallow it down and let it warm me.