Thunder cracked overhead, rippling through the clouds. Lightning soon followed, striking into the wilderness that surrounded the area.
Trees swayed, branches snapping as they were torn free and thrown to the floor below. If my mama were still around, she’d remark that Ascelin had reason to give us this weather. Every storm with mama ended with blood and prayer.
Thick scars layered over each other on the tops of my pale hands, given to me by mama during those nights. We’d stay awake almost until the sun came back, pulling a blade across our palms until we had enough blood to fill a small cup. Mama would take that cup and put it on our front porch, an offering, an apology, a plea to Ascelin.
Every day, until the skies cleared, we’d repeat our ritual.
My hands tingle with sensational memories of that blade, my eyes drawn to the rugged homes that I passed. Each home had a cup just outside their door.
If I were to turn on the pathway and head left, it would take me to far more appealing homes, well kept and built to last. Ascelin’s favored lived there, and I knew without having to see that not one of them had a cup by their door.
I couldn’t swallow the bitterness I felt when I thought of the favored. Ascelin didn’t want their blood, He wanted ours. The blood of the poor, the workers. What had any of us done to offend Him so?
Each day that followed our Appointing, it was drilled into our heads that our responsibility was to repent. Repent so your bloodline may be favored enough to live a better life than yours. Ridiculous. Was I to blame mama, if that were the case? And she, her mama?
The blame ran too far up my family tree, but it ended with me. I had long ago accepted my place, even now finding myself embracing it.
Frogs croaked at each other somewhere in the grass, a building crescendo joined by the other creatures of the night.
A breeze had the ruffled skirt of my night dress blowing out from between my knees. The wet fabric hung heavily around my exposed shoulders, an ombre of blood red to a dry, pale maroon.
I paused where I stood, basking in the feeling of the fresh rain on my cheeks. I didn’t see Ascelin’s storms as punishment like mama had, I saw them as a gift.
A month ago, I would’ve stood in this same spot, wearing a white night dress instead. I would’ve been whisked away within the minute and brought back home, where thorough punishment waited.
As a child, after mama’s ritual, I’d come out into the storm and scream my frustrations at the sky, hoping I was loud enough for Ascelin to hear my contempt for Him. Mama always knew, just like she knew where to find me.
But she was gone now, and all I had left in her place was my husband. I doubted William would be marching out into the storm to find me anytime soon.
The torches lining the cobblestone pathways flickered in the wind. A brief and tantalizing thought crossed my mind. You could always run away.
I was different from others, I’d always known that and so had mama. She’d never said a word to anyone about it, not even me, but we’d both had a mutual understanding.
I’d recite the words, participate in all required ways, but I’d never meant a drop of it. I was different because I didn’t see Ascelin as my God, I saw Him as my death.
“Miss?” A masculine and unrecognizable voice called from behind me.
“Mrs. Sinclair,” I responded kindly to him without turning around to face him. There was nothing the guards could do to me now, not when I wore red.
“Mrs. Sinclair,” he repeated, correcting himself. “You ought to get inside now. I fear Ascelin isn’t letting up tonight.”
“No, I don’t think He is,” I agreed dully. The man’s feet made a scraping noise on the cobblestone as his pace came to a halt several feet behind me.
“I assume your home is just down the way?” He asked. I had paused my walk at a fork in the path. Ahead, the path veered left, cobblestone in pristine condition. Of course he assumed I belonged with the favored; I held the name of a Sinclair.
“No,” I answered him and finally turned around to face him. He was a short man, but what he lacked in height he made up for in muscle. He was dressed in the usual guard’s gear; shiny black metal that I highly doubted was comfortable to move in.
Understanding lit in his eyes, and I could’ve sworn his cheeks reddened a little as he came to the realization. I wasn’t a Sinclair by blood. His lips pursed for a moment as he really understood who I was.
“Right then,” he said awkwardly before clearing his throat. “Let’s get you where it’s warm,” he amended.
A nod was my response to him. I took the lead, following the path that disappeared into the trees.
Bells tinkled around my ankles, almost but not quite soft enough to be disguised in the rain. Even though it meant death, I couldn’t wait to be free of these damn bells.
Thankfully, the man seemed content to follow me in silence, likely discouraged by my marital status. Unfortunately for him, I wasn’t some lonesome maiden of red looking for company.
Darkness swallowed the path as we ventured deeper into what I liked to call the hated neck of the woods. In other words, my neighborhood.
“Here,” I said to him, craning my neck to look at him over my shoulder. I’d stopped outside my house, not needing any light to know I was home.
At the sound of my voice, a curtain pulled aside in my home. Dull, orange flame light spilled forth, illuminating the man.
His eyes were on mine before they shifted to the side of my face, no doubt now looking at William. It hadn’t escaped me that our rickety porch had nothing on it, and it certainly didn’t escape the guard.
He was looking at me again, noting every detail available. I bit my tongue from saying my clothes aren’t going to get any more red.
“Alright then,” he grumbled at last. “Mrs. Sinclair, may Ascelin welcome you with open arms.” He gave me a stiff bow before briskly turning on his heel and disappearing into the night.
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I watched him for as long as I could, eventually losing sight of his bulky shadow. A shiver racked my shoulders, traveling down my spine like a cold hand’s caress.
Just as I began ascending the steps, the front door opened and revealed my husband. Each plank of wood gave its own personalized groan and sigh, worn with many generations of use.
William leaned against the door frame, his arms crossing over his chest. When he looked like this, I remember exactly why I married him.
He was easy to look at, a strong frame filled out with years of work. He had kind eyes, except now they were narrowed on me.
“Claudia,” he said as a way of greeting.
I paused on the last step, black and aged wood complaining beneath my weight. “William,” I breathed out, heart fluttering within my chest.
We stared at each other in silence for a moment before William broke first, surrendering his anger. Shoulders relaxed and the crease in his brow lessened.
My body followed his lead, tensed muscles releasing.
“You’re soaking wet,” he murmured to me, dark eyes fixating on my clothes. “Come inside before you get ill.”
I almost responded that it didn’t matter anyways. Almost.
Rain pattered above, dripping through the slats in the roof. My hand took his outstretched one, fingers interlacing as he pulled my inside.
A fire roared in our humble fire pit, providing just enough light for most of the home. The heat was a stark difference from the cold outside; heavy like a blanket against my skin.
William’s hand guided me further in, leading me towards the firepit. I leaned into him as we walked, his arm balancing me.
A daybed far past its lifespan clung to the wall opposite of the firepit, touching corners with a sunken couch. The cushions had long since deflated, but it was better than sitting on the bare wood.
William watched me cautiously as I seated myself on the couch, his gaze boring into the side of my face.
“Are we going to talk about it?” William asked softly, unmoving.
“About what William?” I could hear the bite in my own voice, the displaced bitterness.
He raised one thick eyebrow at me, as patient as ever. “Are you afraid, Claudia?” His voice was as quiet as a whisper, barely heard above the hiss and pops of crackling logs.
Tears pricked my eyes, a sudden tremble finding my lips as I turned my face from him. I wouldn’t burden some of his final memories of me with tears.
“I’m not afraid of death, if that’s what you’re asking,” I responded, keeping my voice low and steady. “I’m the last of my blood, Will. I’m not grieving my death, I’m grieving the death of my line.”
I listened as he sucked in a breath, holding it in his lungs as he fought to find something to say. It was as close to the truth as I could tell him. The truth was treason, and it’d taint him just as much as I.
It was bad enough that I had said what I had. I was supposed to be celebrating, preparing myself for the moment I would get to meet Ascelin.
“Which is why we need to talk,” he finally said. “I hope you remember that my family will be here tomorrow?”
I could feel the muscles of my jaw flex as my teeth involuntarily ground together. “Yes, of course I remember,” I gritted out. “We’ll be discussing my estate,” I all but scoffed at the word.
“What you’re leaving behind,” he gently corrected me. Sometimes, such as now, the snobbishness that came with his bloodline peeked out.
“There isn’t much,” I muttered, lifting a hand to gesture around me. “I’m sure we’ll have it all sorted before noon.”
“Yes, I know you’ll have them out of the door as soon as possible.” His voice was rough, sour.
“Must we fight, Will?” I turned to face him again, meeting his eyes as his lips pursed. A moment later, he released a breath from flared nostrils, backing a step away from me.
“You’re right, dear,” he said, but his voice told me that he had much more to say. “Come to bed when you’re ready.”
My lips parted, but my tongue couldn’t form the words he wanted to hear from me. Instead, he left in silence, footsteps echoing the beat of my pounding heart.
A creaky door opened then quickly shut. I listened for the squeak and groan of our marital bed. It was the most expensive thing in our barren home, that bed. It had cost William my entire dowry.
His family, the Sinclair’s, had tried their best to endow him with their wealth, but he’d always turn them away at the door. It wouldn’t be right, he’d said. He’d be dishonoring Ascelin to go against his wishes and live a better life than dictated.
Warmth began to creep back into my bones, slowly thawing me. I sat and brewed within my thoughts far longer than I needed to. William was long since asleep, soft snores trailing down the hallway.
The fire had started to dim, but the storm outside raged as evenly as before. My clothes had dried against my skin, crinkling and peeling away as I finally rose to my feet.
I grabbed a log from our stack of firewood, carefully tossing it into the pit. I could feel the heat on my eyes, almost hot enough to hurt.
I’d been raised in this home, this floor had held me from the moment I could walk. And in turn, I had learned this house, and listened as it spoke.
I moved silently across the floor, careful to avoid the planks that would give me away. Our kitchen table sat in the middle of the diner, simple yet sturdy wood that had survived more generations than mama could remember.
A bowl had been left out, a bowl that surely wasn’t ours. My nose crinkled as I studied it and its contents. Murky, cold stew.
I knew that bowl. A brown symbol on its white face was only further confirmation. The Truett crest.
A scowl found my lips and I quickly grabbed the bowl, handling it with two fingers. I was tired of the people bringing us food, especially that damn Truett girl. She couldn’t wait for me to be gone.
The front door was silent as I cracked it open, quickly squeezing myself through to close it just as quickly.
I flung the bowl and its contents into the darkness that clung to our porch. A satisfying crack and shatter soon followed as the bowl struck home.
I didn’t bother to hide myself now as I moved to the other end of our porch. The rain gave me more than enough cover to do what I needed and be done.
My heart began to thud against my ribs as I lowered myself to my knees, exposed fingers quickly beginning to numb as I fidgeted with a loose plank of wood. Breath hitching, the plank came free, clattering as I set it aside.
I braced my other hand against the porch, leaning forward as my arm reached into the newly created hole. I stretched my fingers wide, blindly searching the earth below, cheek against the wood. There.
I felt my fingers brush it, the soft, straight ends of the seeds. Fingers curling around them, I wrenched my arm free, pushing myself back up to seat myself on the heels of my feet.
For a moment, all I did was stare at my hand, still clenched around the seeds. I needed to know, but I didn’t want to.
Trembling fingers began to unfurl, revealing what I sought.
“No,” I said aloud, not wanting to believe what I saw. “Ascelin, no,” my voice trailed into a whimper.
Clumped together in my palm was a clutch of both wheat and barley seeds, all of them beginning to sprout. It had been two moons since I’d last bled, but I had wanted to be sure.
Pain eroded in my chest. I felt as though my heart were truly breaking, tearing itself into pieces. Tears or rain blurred my sight, but still I stared at those seeds. “This isn’t fair,” I cried to myself.
The winds didn’t listen to my cries as it brushed against my skin, making the seeds in my palm rustle. The rain didn’t either, for it continued pouring down above me as if nothing in the world had changed. No soul nor spirit heard or cared for my sorrow.
I’m with child.