A teenage boy tip-toed through a dark living room, tall with mousy brown hair and matching eyes. His boots clutched in one hand, his other reached out to the front door, so close to moonlit freedom and fresh air.

“Going somewhere?” a voice whispered from the corner. Pierce gave out a nervous chuckle and looked back. She was his age, basking in the torchlight seeping in through the open window as she patched a hole in an apron. Her hair was swept back with a strip of cloth, a messy brown river pouring over her shoulder. A plain cotton dress told him she’d gotten just as much sleep as he had.

“I can’t sleep,” he replied, looking at the floor sheepishly. “I was gonna go fer a walk. Clear me head a little.”

“Ye didn’t wake Bowen, did you?” she asked. Pierce shook his head. She set down her work with care, slipping the needle into the cloth for safekeeping. “What’s got yer head so muddled you’d be up at this hour, Pierce?” Bare feet padded across the wood floor as she walked over to him, her neck aching as she stared up. It was like looking into a mirror, or at least it used to be. Her eyes were rounder, her face softer, her shoulders much more slender compared to his muscled frame. And of course, he'd had the audacity to grow a few inches. But the resemblance between the twins was still uncanny, even with Pierce’s recent growth spurts.

Pierce shrugged. “That’s the problem, Paige, I dunno,” he replied. “What’s got you up?”

Paige sighed. “I couldn’t sleep a wink neither," she replied, nudging her head in the direction of the tavern. The sounds of drunken revelry drifted in, muffled by thick log walls and distance. "Figure I’d patch me apron, at least ‘til Da stumbles in.”

“In the dark?” he exclaimed.

“The torches next door give me light enough,” she shrugged. “Besides, I can’t find a ruddy candle anywhere. And before ye ask, I checked. Twice.” He opened his mouth to speak. “And no, we don’t have no tallow, so I can’t just make one.”

Pierce shut his mouth again, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Ma did say she’d buy some on her way home,” the boy muttered. “The candles I mean, not the tallow.”

“I wish I knew we was out before Alfie closed his shop for the night,” she muttered. “Knowin’ the stupor those boys are drinkin’ themselves into, I’ll be shocked if anythin’ is open on the morrow.”

“And I suppose this is the part where ye want me to go see if Joe’s got anything at the tavern, ‘fore ya dye your apron red.”

“I mean, ye could go, but people do pay good money for color.”

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

Pierce rolled his eyes. “I’d better get that candle quick then. Can’t have you lookin’ like we’ve got royal coffers hiding in here.” She stuck her tongue out at him as he left, holding her needlework up close to the window to hoard as much light as possible.

Pierce walked down the dirt road, pausing just inside the tavern’s large wood door. It was filled to the brim with dirty men and spilling mugs of ale. One man in particular stood on a table, shouting for the attention of the room as he danced a jaunty jig, swaying to and fro. He lost his balance and fell crashing to the floor, much to the enjoyment of his fellows.

Pierce wove through the crowd, dodging ale and drunken men as he made it to the counter. There stood an old man, a big white bushy mustache consuming his upper lip. “I thought ye wasn’t gonna show, Pierce,” he called out to the boy.

“Ran out of candles at the house, Joe. Ya wouldn’t happen to have one we could buy off you, would ya?”

“Depends, did your sister send you here with coin?” Joe asked with a raised eyebrow. Pierce patted his empty coin pouch and sighed, hanging his head. “Go fetch yer money, lad. I’ve got to rummage around in the back for the candles, anyways. You’re fine with the bear fat ones, I take it?” Pierce nodded, already making his way back through the crowd.

Pierce poked his head through the open door. “Hey Paige, I forgot money,” he said to the empty room. His eyes fell to her chair, a piece of cloth laying on the floor. “Paige?” he called out, then covered his mouth. He could hear shifting and rolling in the other room. Bowen. Pierce opened the door, poking his head into the bedroom. A small child rubbed his eyes, wool blankets wrapped around him. Pierce ignored him, rushing to the window. No sign of her there. He ran out the front door. “Paige?” he called out, peering into the dark. Joe was walking up the dirt road, a torch in one hand and candles in the other, giving Pierce an odd look as he watched the boy shout into the dark. Confusion turned to concern when Pierce slipped.

“Ye alright, lad?” Joe asked, walking over to Pierce. Pierce grunted as he pulled himself up into a sitting position. His hand landed in something warm and wet. He could hear the tavern keeper talking, his words trailing off as the glow of the torch hit Pierce. Crimson coated his palm, dripping down his wrist to the pool below. Blood. Fresh blood.

Torches were lit. Shouting ensued. The local hunter slung his bow over his shoulder, his dogs sniffing the droplets of blood in the dirt. Pierce grabbed for a torch, only to have a man pull it from his hand. “I think ye’ve helped enough, haven’t ye?” the man glared. Pierce clenched his jaw. “Stay here with Bowen.” The man turned and walked into the woods.

“Yes da,” he replied. Then he winced. A sharp pain hit his temple, white hot pain searing his skull. Then it was gone, as though nothing had happened.

“Are you alright, son?” an old man slurred, still sipping a mug of ale. Some of the nobles had joined the search, though this one was far too old to do so.

Pierce nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m fine.” He turned around, walking back into the house. “I’m fine.”

~

The sun rose. The tracker walked through the doors of the tavern, dragging his feet. Pierce peered up from wiping down tables, hope twisting into dread as the tracker stared back. The man shook his head, then asked Joe about the nobles. They hadn’t left yet. Those who had joined the search had long returned, taking a quick nap before heading off to the capital. The tracker muttered into his mug of ale, something about sending a message with the nobles.