Emmy
Closing her eyes, Emmy counted to three as a familiar and unwelcome figure entered Madame Krodge’s Apothecary. Before she opened her eyes again, Emmy began a silent chant. Still your tongue. Don’t say anything. It should have been easy. But it wasn’t.
Mr Amra Bose strode straight to the counter, other customers stepping aside to let him pass. He was middle-aged, perpetually puffed by his own self-importance, wearing clothes typical of the husband class. He wore colorful fabrics, draped from the shoulder and kept in place by brooches of colored glass. The hem of his cloak was pinned by enamel work, raising it from the common filth of the streets. His horns were polished and his scales shone, the picture of a perfect husband.
Bose laid his elaborate hat on the counter and peeled off his gloves, one claw at a time. His two companions, other husbands that trailed on his spiked tail, hovered at his shoulders with their chins stuck high in the air. As Bose unsheathed his final claw and slid the gloves aside.
‘Well?’ Bose asked.
He drummed his talons on the counter.
The sight of his smug face made Emmy want to retch. Regardless, she stretched her lips into a thin smile.
‘How may I be of service today?’ she asked.
The words threatened to break her teeth.
‘Madame Bose is returning from Linvarra tomorrow, providing all is well,’ Bose said. He turned to appreciate his companions’ sympathetic nods and added, ‘the goddess be blessed. You know what it’s like. Home from fighting in King Eron’s Service, bravely protecting us from the Masvam threat. Well, she deserves to be looked after.’
Mr Bose’s eyes widened and he brought one hand to his thin lips. He glanced over his shoulder before returning his watery gaze to Emmy.
‘Oh, I misspoke,’ he said. ‘You don’t know what that’s like, do you?’ He chuckled. ‘Despite coming of age, you’ve still never entered the service. Krodge paid the Coward’s Tax for you, so you’ve never risked your life to keep the wicked Masvams out.’ Bose grinned, showing two lines of sharp teeth. ‘Well, I suppose not all females can be as good and brave as my beauteous wife. There are always...exceptions.’
He looked Emmy up and down, mouth curling in disgust.
Emmy tried to let her mind escape her body, to flee from the pulsing thoughts that invaded like knives. The effort was futile. All she could think of was pulling Bose over the counter by his nose slits and... Best not think about it. Heart pounding, she balled her claws into fists.
‘What is it that you need from me?’
‘If there’s no-one else available to assist me,’ Bose said, glancing over her shoulder into the rooms behind, ‘I suppose I can put up with you.’
Emmy clenched her jaws. There wasn’t anyone else and Bose knew it. Emmy was the only one who worked in the apothecary—apart from the mistress upstairs, of course. It had been that way for all of Emmy’s sixteen cycles.
‘I hoped you would have some powdered garba root,’ Bose continued, ‘but I’m sure that, as usual, you don’t.’ He turned to his companions again and rolled his eyes. ‘One does appreciate the great power of a healing paste mixed with such a rare commodity, but...’
‘Actually,’ Emmy said, ‘I ordered some just for you, as you’re always telling me how useful it is. It’s fifteen bickles per measure.’
She kept her face as straight as possible, but on the inside she was grinning. Bose’s mouth opened and closed several times as he contemplated the information, knowing other customers were staring at the back of his head.
‘Well... I...’
Emmy’s face twitched. Bose cleared his throat, trying to regain composure.
‘Madame Bose, of course, did not mention any wounds. She writes to me so often. I would know immediately if there was something wrong—even if she didn’t say so outright. Thus, I shan’t need your overpriced goods.’
His companions shook their heads and tutted as other customers murmured. In truth, fifteen bickles was an agreeable price for a valuable commodity.
‘I would be pleased if you would, instead,’ Bose continued, ‘provide me with five measures of sicklestem juice.’ He simpered. ‘I add it to Madame Bose’s tea for its relaxing properties.’
Before she could respond, Emmy forced her tongue into her mouth and clamped down with her teeth. Sicklestem juice was hardly just relaxing. It made a powerful sleeping draught. It could kill. There should have been a law to control the selling of it, but there wasn’t.
Without speaking, she spun around. She couldn’t say anything. Emmy the Moon Rogue was enough of a villain in the town of Bellim already. Taking a deep breath, she looked for the sicklestem juice.
Behind the counter stood Emmy’s pride and joy. Stretching across the length of the shop was a set of glass-fronted cupboards that cost the moon. Each vertical sweep was organized into categories. There were sections for medicines and remedies of course. Others were for cooking, for cleaning. The most colorful shelf was devoted to buttons, thread, and beads.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Krodge’s provided everything a husband needed to make a comfortable home for his wife. Roots, juices, sap, dried insects, live insects, fungi, herbs, animal bones... The list went on. Everything was locked in an ordered prison, behind glass doors more valuable than most of the contents. Krodge coveted extravagance. To the old crone, nothing was more important. Emmy suppressed a shudder. She herself was at the bottom of Krodge’s list of things to covet.
Emmy lifted a thick-bottomed decanter from its perch and turned back to Bose.
‘Has sir brought his own phial?’ she asked.
Mr Bose smirked and reached into his bag. His claws moved with ease at first but soon began to scrabble. His face twisted with frustration, then darkened with embarrassment.
‘In my haste to prepare for Madame Bose’s return, I have neglected to bring one,’ he said.
Emmy smirked.
‘Very well,’ she said, ‘you may buy a phial for one bickle or you may borrow one for three cren, to be returned tomorrow.’
Mr Bose’s eyes bulged.
‘Scandalous prices.’
His compatriots nodded in agreement. However, when Bose looked away, they cast anxious glances at Emmy.
This was too rich. She held the decanter aloft, swirling the amber liquid, and raised an eyeridge. Bose glared at her before he huffed his answer.
‘Fine. I shall rent one.’
As she had expected—the little miser. Emmy fetched a thin phial. She measured the sweet-smelling nectar, corked it, and placed it on the counter.
‘That will be one bickle and a cren.’
Glowering, Bose reached for his purse. He tossed two coins—the bickle large and thick, the cren thin and pierced with a hole—across the counter.
‘There.’
Emmy, with painful slowness, set each on her money scale in turn. She stopped short of testing them with her teeth. Bose’s face was in a satisfactory blaze of fury. Satisfied, Emmy bowed.
‘Thank you for your custom,’ she said.
Bose deposited the phial into his bag, then snatched up his hat and gloves.
‘Good day,’ he spat.
He turned. As he did, his friends marched to the door. Bose swept off but stopped on the threshold. He half-turned.
‘I detest being served by such a half-breed,’ he hissed.
The following silence hung like lead.
Emmy said nothing as Bose chuckled. When he left, she stayed at her post. Her job. Her existence. She closed her eyes, took a breath, and sighed. It was going to be a long day.
When the sun finally painted the sky orange and sent the customers home, Emmy locked the door. She surveyed the shop, her shoulders drooping. Grime glimmered in the fading light. One of her eyes twitched at the sight of her prized bitterberry plant lying on its side. Soil spilled in clumsy waves. She grumbled as she righted it. No one has any respect, she thought. And they call me a beast…
Afterward she fetched a broom and began to sweep. As the shop returned to its tidy state, Emmy’s insides fell into order. Maintaining cleanliness was an endless task. In moments of madness, she wanted to leave the place to its filthy demise. Emmy shuddered. No, she thought. She couldn’t live with it—and if the mistress ever came downstairs again, she would beat her halfway to the Dark and back.
The mistress was Madame Krodge, proprietor of the only apothecary in the port of Bellim. Emmy’s earliest memories were of watching the broad female dole out powders and liquids with an expert flick of the wrist. But the memories were not gilded ones. While other younglings frolicked, Emmy was forced to work. And she was beaten. And it had always been that way.
Emmy shook off the memory and wound her way to the back yard. The air was salty. Wisps of light from the three moons slipped out from behind dark clouds. They were Nunako’s three faces, the goddess’s eyes watching over the world as the inky night spread towards the horizon.
Emmy had lived with Madame Krodge all her sixteen cycles, though she was not her mother. Tormentor was closer to the mark.
Emena, get in here! Emena, you beastly Moon Rogue! Emena, come closer and receive your punishment!
Krodge was always right and Emmy was always wrong. No matter what she did or said, Krodge always had a correction or a criticism. And, from Emmy’s youngest cycle to more recently when Krodge was confined to her bed, there were her daily, painful lessons.
When the shop was closed, cleaned, and ready for the next day, and Emmy had prepared the mistress’s supper, she would kneel at the end of the table. She placed her hands on the top, palms upright.
Krodge would reach for her switch.
The lessons always went the same way.
‘What are you?’ Krodge would ask.
Emmy would obediently reply, her eyes cast down.
‘I am a Moon Rogue.’
Krodge clucked her tongue.
‘And?’
‘I am an inconvenience.’
‘And?’
‘I am truly grateful for all you have given me, Madame.’
Krodge would bring the switch down hard, once on each palm.
‘Don’t forget it.’
Then she would eat her meal, and Emmy dutifully stayed on her knees until the crone was finished.
‘It’s for your own good, you know,’ Krodge would sometimes stay. But there was never any compassion in her tone.
Many of the stories of Emmy’s life were just the same. The earliest such story was one Krodge delighted in telling. She said that at first, she thought the little bundle on her doorstep was a free meal. To her unending disappointment, instead, she found a youngling—a deformed youngling. A Moon Rogue.
No-one in Bellim looked like Emmy. It felt like no-one in the world was like her. Emmy had the same long body, the same long, triple-jointed legs, the tall crest of horns, the pointed ears and the long tail complete with spikes. Granted she was half a head taller than most, but this was hardly a detail to scorn her over. There was one inescapable difference between Emmy and the others that they did scorn.
The folk of Bellim were typical Metakalans, with brown skin and red armor—thick scales that ran across the skin in patterns. Their fronds—a mane of thinner, longer scales atop the head—were colored anything from palest moons’ light to darkest wood. But Emmy wasn’t like that.
Setting the broom aside, she raised her arm. Even in the darkness, the difference was clear. Her skin was sickly blue, her armor deep purple. Her fronds were straight and sable. These were differences that no one could, or would, ignore. Folk stared. They whispered. A demon. A Moon Rogue. Emmy was something different—and entirely unwelcome.
She pulled herself from the murk of thought again. There’s no point in dwelling on something you can’t change, Emmy thought. I wish things were different, but they aren’t. So I just need to get on with my life. Shaking her head, she finished cleaning and went to the kitchen.
After stoking the fire that blazed in the pit, Emmy filled a heavy kettle with water and hung it on an iron hook. Its thick bottom hovered over the smoldering wood. Krodge would want tea, and it had to be on time. Every night was the same.
Too young to strike out alone, too strange to be accepted anywhere else, Emmy stayed with her mistress even though it was torture. What choice did she have?
As the water boiled, Emmy sat on the stool by the fire and folded her arms. She closed her eyes. Another day over...
Sudden hammering sent her heart into spasm. Emmy leapt up and loped to the shop, keys jangling. A dark hand cupped against one of the gleaming window panes. A red eye peered underneath. When it spied her, the familiar face erupted with relief.
‘Emmy!’
She rushed forward, fumbling for her keys. When the door swung open, her only friend was there. Zecha. And he was cradling a body.
A dead body.