To those who feel themselves broken and lost:

The night is long, but day is coming soon.

Someone is searching for you. You will be found.

I stared into the winter sky and thought of Mother.

She’d received a letter that one of our ships found port at the coast. The Dufresne Trading Company’s fleet, once ten ships strong, was obliterated in a freak typhoon in the Indian Ocean. In an instant, we’d lost everything. If there was a scantling chance anything survived, then there was hope we could leave this village.

She would be for only two weeks at most. That was at the end of November.

It was the day before Christmas Eve. Mother was nowhere to be seen.

“Get back to work, Dufresne!” Monsieur Duke barked.

I jumped and dropped my broom. “S-Sorry sir,” I stammered. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“This is the third time this week!” The baker said from behind the counter. His filthy apron barely covered his large frame. “You’re paid to clean, not think! Get your head out of the clouds!”

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled as I picked up my broom.

            You did it again, I chided myself. Thinking about yourself instead of anything else. You have people counting on you.

            A few hours later, I was having lunch in the back room. Beside me sat Miss Genny DeRose. She’d worked here for twenty years. Her face was always sweaty and red. Strands of gray hair always remained plastered on her brow. Her bright blue eyes regarded me with concern. “Why the long face, Marius?” She asked. “You haven’t touched your sandwich.”

            “Thinking,” I answered.

            “Your mother?”

            I nodded.

Genny laid a hand on my shoulder. “Sometimes it’s enough just to have hope.”

            “I guess you’re right.” I pushed my sandwich towards her. “You can have it. I’m not hungry anyway.”

            Genny pushed it back. “You’re a young man. You need to build your strength.”

            “You’re too thoughtful.”

            “What say I bring over a Yule Log for Christmas Eve? I’d wager your mother should be home by then, at least.”

            “That sounds wonderful. I look forward to it.”

            Sometimes I felt like her kindness was wasted on me. Maybe it was my small stature that endeared me to her.

            Work dragged on as usual. All the while, I watched the clock and the darkening skies. Finally, when the day was finished, I waited by the counter as Duke counted my pay.

Almost three years of working here and thirty livres was “all” he could manage. It was better than nothing, at least that’s what I told myself.

The sharp chime of metal on metal stung my ears as the baker corralled the money into a small bag. “Here you are,” he said as he tied the bag closed with string.

            I untied the bag and recounted them quickly. “There’s ten less in here.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?” Duke asked, raising an eyebrow.

            “I thought my amount was thirty. There’s only twenty in here.”

            “Your rate is hourly. The subtracted amount the time I see you daydreaming when you’re supposed to be doing your job.”

            “But sir—”

            “No questions asked, city boy.” The baker gave me a stern look. “I think you’d understand by now that down here, on terra firma, you work for me. Sweep my floors, bake my bread. If you can’t keep your head out of the clouds and focus on that, then find a different job.”

            A protest bubbled in the back of my throat. I wanted to tell him he stole that money from me. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t need this job and I could find another.

            Then I remembered my brothers and mother.

            “I’ll work harder, then, sir,” I responded instead.

            “Keep that up and maybe you’ll earn the ten back.” Duke nodded. “Now go home.”

Though Christmas was tomorrow, no decorations hung on the buildings of Amersot. There was only the cold bitterness of winter without the warmth and joy of the holiday. The sky was a blanket of gray. Snowdrifts covered the roads. The wind bit into my cheeks. The setting sun cast long shadows from the buildings across the beaten roads.

It was late. I needed to get home, and fast.

You will not be distracted, I told myself again and again. You will go straight home.

But like before, my eyes were drawn to the extraordinary thing in the village square.

            A large statue of a bird, finely carved from black stone, stood at the center of the town. It dwarfed the nearby well by four feet at least. I guessed it was a raven from its beak and overall sleek form. Its form was wrapped tightly in thick, thorny vines. I could see my dim reflection in its large dark eyes. Its hooked beak appeared frozen in a scowl, with long icicles hanging from the tip like fangs. Sharp talons clutched its perch. I couldn’t help but stare every time I passed by it. There was something about the eyes which captivated me. I approached the small bronze plaque at the raven’s feet and rubbed away some snow. It was completely blank, with only a smooth brown plate in the stone.

Genny had told me about it. She said it had been there ever since she was young. According to her, that statue was a marker of dominion. It was a reminder to every one of the people who used to “rule” Amersot. It was a dynasty of arcane persuasion or rather a family of magicians. But no one knew the family’s name. Genny said they used to live in a great manor deep in the forest. The manor was massive and opulent and richer than any kingdom in the world. But one day, it just disappeared into the woods, and the family was never heard from again. Genny said it had been so long since then that family was not even a memory. Only that statue remained.

“All things are forgotten eventually,” she told me. “It is the inevitable nature of all things.”

“Then why haven’t you forgotten?” I asked her one day.

“I guess a good memory is my curse.” Was her response.

            A lost manor. A family of magicians. It all sounded like something out of a children’s fairy tale. And yet everyone in town just walked by it like the statue wasn’t even there.

            I passed by the stores and nice houses towards the edge of town. After passing the cemetery and church, the buildings soon gave way to a thick forest. The large twisting trees resembled prison bars, a barrier between civilization and gathering darkness. I held my ragged coat close as the night air settled into me. My teeth began chattering, the sound loud inside my skull. Last winter was awful. This one, it seemed, would be worse.

            I’d never even heard of this place until just a few years ago. Outside of these woods were just empty stretches of grassland as far as one could see. Just a single path into a dense forest was the indication that this village existed. I never realized any place could be so isolated.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

If living here had taught me anything, it taught me that people barely had time to think about anything besides the next day. Everyone kept to themselves, mostly. When we’d first arrived, it had taken some time before anyone spoke to us outside of simple transactional conversation. Even then, Genny was the only person we knew here. The others either didn’t notice or cared to notice. Everyone was just too busy trying to get by. I didn’t hold it against them. Trying to know others was hard enough in between trying to scrape together a living.

            Past the last few abandoned barns and houses with collapsed roofs sat our cottage. The house was nestled at the boundary between where the edge of the town ended and the forest began. The trees loomed overhead like terrifying sentinels. It was originally supposed to be a vacation home purchased by a grandparent years ago, though why anyone would want to vacation here I had no idea. The grandparent, whose name escaped me, got it for a cheap price but let it go to seed. It was only meant to house two at most. No one could’ve anticipated it had to house a family of four.

The roof was sunken in again. Connie, my oldest brother, mentioned he’d been trying to save to get that fixed again. That was two months ago, and it was still sunken in. If it rained, it was going to leak. But at least the windows weren’t broken, and the door wasn’t hanging on its hinges. Small blessings, if I could call it that.

            The cottage which had been our home for the past three years was a single cramped space with a hearth and stove, four straw beds, and a tiny dining table. The air smelled like earth, smoke, and droppings. There were two beds, but we had to get rid of them because the mattresses were moldy, and the bedframes were filled with termites. The table and chairs were generously given by Connie’s employer, an elderly man who ran the carpentry shop in town. The fireplace was lit, which banished the draft that blew in here momentarily. But knowing how temperamental the weather was here, that cold would return very soon.

The large frame of Connie sat at the stove stirring the pot. At the dining table sat August. His spectacled, hawkish gray eyes carefully watched small towers of silver coins. His hands nimbly counted each coin into stacks as he pushed them into separate ends of the table. He muttered each count to himself. I stepped very quietly through the house past the table.

            “You’re late. What kept you?”” August said without looking up from his work.

            “Work. What else?” I said as I hung up my coat.

            “You should’ve been home fifteen minutes ago. It’s your turn to help with dinner tonight.”

            “I didn’t mean to be late.”

            “But you are, and that’s the problem.” August removed his spectacles. “We’re all in this and you need to be as well, Marius!”

            “August, it wasn’t my fault. I was held up at work.” I said firmly. I took out my coin purse and tossed it on the table. “Here’s my toll, taskmaster.”

            “Sarcasm is unbecoming, brother.” August unlaced the bag and began counting the silver.

            I sighed as I took off my boots. August was always very strict about managing the finances, he was part of accounting in the family business after all. But ever since Mother left, August had slipped right into the role of the harsh bookkeeper. It was his way of maintaining a sense of order in our dire financial situation. Sometimes I felt he used it as an excuse to push me around.

            “You’re ten pieces short.” August cut through the momentary calm. “Why are you ten pieces short?”

            I winced. And just like that, it’s over. Like everything else good in my life. “August—"

            “Did you lose the money? Did you spend it on anything on the way home?” My brother stood suddenly. 

             “Dear God, Augustus,” I muttered, ignoring the mania in my brother’s voice. “The baker docked my pay. I wasn’t spending anything.”

            “We need that extra money, Marius! Firewood and meat are already expensive as it is!”

            That was the last straw. “Then take the firewood and shove it up your—”

            “Boys!” Connie boomed from the fireplace. “Settle down! Mother told us to work together.” Connie stood from the pot. His long curly hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. He greeted me with a big smile. “Good to see you, Marius! How was your day?”

            “Terrible,” I admitted.

            Connie frowned. “That’s too bad. A good meal should cheer you up.” He gave August a knowing glance. “See, Augustus? That’s how you greet people.”

            August rolled his eyes and sat back down to return to his counting.

            “Dinner’s just about ready, so don’t go too far.” Connie alerted before dipping back into the kitchen.

            “I’ll set the table, then.”

            Dinner was spinach and radish soup. It was our standard meal within our means ever since we came to this village. The cold weather here made anything else difficult to grow.

            We ate in silence. We’d been doing that more and more as the months wore on. There was so little to discuss when every day was the same routine: wake up, work our fingers to the bone, then come home with little money.

            My brothers sat opposite me at our rickety table. Connie’s large frame dwarfed August. His arms were the size of trunks, and his hair was a messy tangle of brown curls. He resembled a shaved bear, albeit without claws and teeth.

August, on the other hand, was smaller and blonde. We didn’t know where in our family that originated, so it made him stand out. His hair, normally tied back, was messy and unkempt. Sharp gray eyes occasionally eyed me from across the table. I assumed he was still thinking about the money. He reminded me of a fox eyeing a chicken.

I was alone on my end. The empty seat beside me felt like a yawning pit. I felt it. I knew my brothers felt it. But we kept eating and tried our best to ignore it.

To think that we, the Dufresnes, were here was still hard to take in. Our name was something of renown, at least at one point.

The Dufresne Trading Company stood for forty years and gifted us enormous wealth. Our lives were easier than most. But our status was a privilege, not a right, as Mother always reminded us. It all could go in an instant, so we were smart to not take it for granted.

We had our gifts: Mother, having been born and raised to run the company, was trade and commerce; Constantine often found himself around the docks and took up carpentry; and Augustus loved numbers and thus became an accountant.

That left me. I was the youngest, or the most coddled according to August. I had none of my family's myriad talents. I wasn’t much to look at either, despite Mother’s beauty or my brothers’ handsome features. My gift, it seemed, was to remain in the background.

That is until Mother brought home a tapestry.

            It was a peacock framed by the sun and mountains, with wisping clouds encircling its tiny head in a halo. Its long tail feathers fell in an s-curve before turning into a rushing river that ran down to the bottom of the picture. The bird’s colors shone like emerald and sapphire, the threads twinkling in the firelight as gemstones and pieces of glass were sewn into the fabric. Every part of the bird shined brilliantly, like a constellation taken from the sky.

Mother told us the man who made it was very poor. Everything in the piece was made from materials found near his village: broken glass, small stones from the river, things like that. Peacocks were signs of regality and beauty, The man told Mother, but if a peacock can be made from detritus and random stones, then beauty and regality could be found in anything. Mother offered to buy it, but he refused and allowed her to take it.

Connie paid no mind while August found it silly. But to me, it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

Just like that, art became a curiosity. Curiosity became a fascination. Then fascination became an obsession. And one too many visits to private art shows and exhibitions tipped the scale for me. At age 14, I decided to be a painter.

            Our standing with the elite of Paris meant a formal education in the arts was easily attainable.

            Then just three years into my studies, we lost everything. Now we were here, in this cold hovel that resembled a cottage. A pity how quickly fortunes turned.

            After cleaning up after dinner, I retired to my bedroll in the corner. The straw did little to protect from the hardness of the floor. Sometimes it was comfortable. I slept with my coat on, as I did in the winter months. It did little to keep the cold out. When we couldn’t afford any firewood, we slept in a large cot in the middle of the room.

I wrapped myself in blankets and settled in for the night. I lay awake for several hours staring at the ceiling, awake in the dark.

It was so hard to fall asleep here. There was my brothers’ snoring, even though August and Connie insisted they didn’t. But I could attest to nearly three years of rumbling from Connie and high-pitched wheezing from August. Sometimes the house creaked angrily from wind or rain. Sometimes the walls wept when the weather was bad, and raindrops splatted my face. Other times I heard howling from the woods. Sometimes there was silence. On those nights I just gazed at the window. When the skies were clear I could see the stars. When the moon was full, it hung beautifully in the sky like a silver coin.

I wondered if anyone else was awake at this time.

            I heard a tiny squeak. A little white shape scurried through the dark and sniffed my hand. I brought my finger to the rodent’s wiggling pink nose and whiskers.

Doux licked and wrapped his body around my hand. “I don’t have any food,” I whispered.

The rat responded by hugging my finger with his little paws. I brought him to my pillow. Doux walked in circles before lying down and shutting his eyes. I scratched his tiny body as he slept.

            Of all the things to comfort me in this place, I thought as I watched Doux sleep. It was you, little one.

            I stared back at the ceiling and tried to sleep. My thoughts returned to Mother.

I remembered the last thing I’d said to her.

            When she was preparing to leave, she asked us all if we wanted something from the city. “An early Christmas gift for my boys,” she said. “And celebration for a return to our old lives.”

            Connie asked for a new set of tools. August wanted new pens.

            At first, I didn’t want anything. They all asked for something useful. What could you possibly want? I told myself.

            “Just a paintbrush,” I mumbled. “I can figure the rest out later.” Selfish, I thought as words left me. Stupid and selfish.

            Mother smiled and kissed us all on the head. “I’ll be back soon.”

            Just a brush. I should’ve asked for boots. I made a vow to give up painting when we left the city. I wasn’t even fully trained, and who would possibly be able to pay for a portrait out here? It wasn’t practical, I told myself. I wasn’t practical.

            Yet I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Every day that wore on here, all I could think about was how much I wanted to hold a brush again.

            That’s just a dream, I told myself as I rolled over and shut my eyes. A foolish dream.