The sun-warmed pavement scalds Ivory's bare feet as she wanders Aglia with the eyes of a prisoner freed from years of fear. Despite the burn of the ongoing heat, she is giddy on her toes. The worst that could happen now is being thrown into the dungeons, and although that would be a terrible curse in itself, at least they would not deprive her of food.

The crow is still sitting with pride on her shoulder. He reminds her of his presence with the casual cackle or two during every other hour. Ivory hopes he will forgive her for having broken her promise; when they arrived back at the shore earlier last night, there was no sign of his parents whatsoever, so, she decided to take him in, instead.

She wonders if the bird misses them, or if he was quick to forget—to adapt to the new situation, with a certain ease she admires in the creature. "Maybe I should give you a name," Ivory mutters, as he nudges her jaw for the third time today. "Or… how does this work." She frowns. "Perhaps, you already have one?"

The bird gawks, then caws once more.

“Ah...” Ivory tilts her head and snickers in a manner so awkward that it makes two passersby stop and stare—granted, they could not have guessed she is talking to the bird. “Sorry, little guy,” she tells him. “I wish I could understand you.”

Her eyes wander to the top of a nearby tavern. Its front sign is shaped with letters that form the name Robin. The crow shakes his feathers and seems to dance on himself. She laughs. “You like Robin, huh?” Another nudge, the tickle of feathers against her skin. “All right, fine, then.” Ivory gives the bird's belly two scratches before pulling away. “Robin it is!”

They pass the main gates, where two people are trying to enter Aglia. They don't seem to be arguing with the guard, though, it isn't as if he’s letting them pass either.

Before the soldier in question can turn around and spot Ivory in all her glory—curtain-skirt and filth-covered skin—Ivory has dashed across the road and onto to the next street. Part of her wishes she could thank those two visitors, for she isn't sure she’d have made it this far without their much needed distraction.

She settles for keeping them in her thoughts, and praying that they will be let through without receiving too much trouble from the city's guard.

Ivory peers at her surroundings. Aglia's slums are far behind in her now. It is easy to tell by the way the buildings do not curve, and beg for renovations. How some roofs are slathered in gold, along with the sight of brilliant doorknobs, built in the shape of emblems that represent a lineage of noblemen and women alike, who are surely unwinding and sipping tea from within their comfortable domains.

Her stomach grumbles at the thought of tea. She sighs. She places a hand across her stomach. It's been almost three days now since she’s caught hold of even a crumb, and the matter is beginning to weigh on her, especially as she passes a bakery whose entrance is open. The scent of fresh bread and pastries waft out into the streets. For the first time in her life, Ivory finds herself cursing how clean Aglia is. There aren't any traces of garbage to be found anywhere.

Ivory had not gone looking for trash until this day, yet, even after hours of waltzing up and down the city, she was unable to recover any place where scraps are burned, or dumped. It is almost suspicious. Where do they keep it? The question looms over her head like an old ghost. Surely, they do not make it disappear with magic?

Such things should not be possible.

She takes a step to the right, with the intention of entering another street. But a single hand grips her shoulder that does not carry Robin, and holds on tightly.

Ivory gulps. She braces herself to start making up whatever excuse she can find in order to avoid trouble. Yet, when a soft and gentle voice speaks her name, it is not a telltale fable that escapes her, but a gasp.

Dressed from head to toe in clothes ever so regal, one of the prostitutes from the inn—Caitlin, Ivory remembers—observes her with disbelief. “You're alive,” although her statement is filled with surprise, her voice remains hushed, low. “Ivory, how—”

“Please don't tell them I survived,” Ivory finds herself blurting the words before she can even give them much thought. She shakes her head. Her eyes narrow as she glances down to their feet. “I don't want to go back.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“What?” Caitlin hisses. “What kind of nonsense are you speaking of? Of course I won't let them know you lived! But, this is...” She releases her and smiles. It sounds as if she is about to cry. “This is such wonderful news! Oh, Ivory,” Caitlin huffs, and wipes a tear from her eye. “I'm so, so glad that if any one of us was to make it out of that place it was you! I—” She glances down at her attire and cringes. “Is that a curtain?”

This time, Ivory cannot help but burst out into laughter. The way her shoulders shake makes the crow cackle. She did not realize how much relief her heart would feel by simply talking to a familiar face, yet, how great it is to see Caitlin again! And how lovely it is to know that she is able to share her worries with someone who will understand!

“Um, yes, perhaps.” Ivory scratches at her cheek. “You see, they weren't very chivalrous. I was given nothing more than a pair of underwear and an old shirt to make it through the night. Had to make-do, I suppose. Though,” she chuckles. “It's actually not that bad once you get used to it. You should try it sometimes.”

Caitlin smirks. “I doubt my clients would appreciate that.”

“Right.” Ivory nods. “Right...” She bites her lip, then averts her gaze, before she peers up at Caitlin again. “You know… you could run away with me, Caitlin. We could try to save the rest of the women that are still there.”

But Caitlin's smile falters. She reaches out. She grasps Ivory's hands. “No we couldn't,” she tells her. “They don't have hope, not like you. Too much has happened. There’s no place left for us in this world, even if we were to escape. We are dependent. You are not.”

Ivory takes a step forward. “I'm sure that's not true.” Her fingers tremble against the woman's own. “I'm sure we could figure something out if we worked together and—”

“They won't want to leave.” A part of Caitlin's tightly woven braid unravels. A long, strand of brown brushes past her worn features. “If we make plans, they will tell the men.”

“What?” Ivory squints. “That's ridiculous, Caitlin, why would they? They never said a word when I brought them food.”

“It's not the same.” Caitlin squeezes her palms before she stills, then lets go. “Listen, I appreciate what you've done for us, but nobody would want to hire a whore. Even if we wished for it to be so, we wouldn't even be able sell bread in the markets. They know our faces. They wouldn't allow it.”

This time, it is Ivory that grabs her by the wrist. “You're not a whore!” she blurts. Her mind swims in cold rage. “You're just doing what you can to survive! It is a job. It is not you. Who you take to bed has nothing to do with your value as a person. I don’t—”

“Thank you, Ivory.” Caitlin takes her into her arms. She smells like strong perfume that reminds Ivory of her childhood. “The world would be easier if people were as kind as you.”

Ivory's eyes fill with tears. “Caitlin, I don't… I don’t know what to say. I wish I could have done more. I wish I could have taken you with me.”

Caitlin caresses the back of her sullied hair and sighs. “I'll take care of them for you, I promise,” she tells her. “And I will pray that you are well, every night—you have my word.”

“As will I.” Ivory sniffles. She digs her fingers into the back of Caitlin's dress. It is soft. It only makes her sob more. “As will I,” she echoes. Her voice is weak, and drained of any fighting spirit that may have remained within her minutes ago.

It is strange, how a single conversation has managed to tire her more than an entire day of walking barefoot under the sun could.

When their tears have dried, they step back to find each other’s gazes one final time. Both their eyes are red, and sunken with a loss they know is coming. Caitlin slides her palm inside her purse and pulls out an envelope. “Here.” She hands it to Ivory.

Ivory glances down to the bit of paper sealed with a deep, emerald emblem, that bares an eerie resemblance to the crest belonging to Aglia's royals. “What this?” she asks.

“An invitation.” Caitlin pulls out another scrap of paper—a voucher that glitters with a shade of violet that almost appears alive in this light. “The Prince is holding a ball to celebrate his birthday.”

Ivory blinks twice. She stares at her, dumbfounded. “And you do not want to go?”

“I figure it will be of more use to you. There's going to be a lot of food there.” She shrugs. “You look like you could use a good meal.”

“I'm wearing a curtain, Caitlin.”

Caitlin pushes the voucher into the small of her palm. “That's why I'm giving you this, too. Go get yourself an outfit worthy of who you are!”

However, Ivory places them both back into their original owner's hands. “I can't,” she says. “This must have cost you a fortune.”

The woman waves her idea away and scoffs. “Don't worry about that. I have a generous client.” She does a curtsy, then motions at her current dress. “He won't notice if I forget to use a voucher or two.” Caitlin pushes her gifts back into Ivory's hands. “Plus, it was our fault if they kicked you out. So just… accept it, and let me repay you as best as I can.”

Ivory purses her lips together. Eventually, she sighs, then makes a fist around the envelope. “Fine…” Her shoulders slump. She takes Caitlin into her arms one last time. “You'll be okay, yeah?” she whispers against her neck.

The woman nods. She chuckles, whispers back, “Of course I will. Who do you think I am?”

For the first time since they started talking, this truly feels like goodbye.

As Caitlin waves her farewells with a discreet motion of her hand, she smiles. “Take care of yourself, Ivory, all right?”

More women walk past them. She disappears, into the crowd.