The Dragon's Hoard

POV: Harper

We were sitting at the kitchen table eating supper. Nothing fancy, just fish and chips. I’d scored a good deal from the vendor who occasionally sold his catch in Blackheath. The only reason we could afford a little variety in our diet was because I worked.

“I don’t see why you have an issue. It’s not like I’m working underground,” I said for the umpteenth time. “You worked there for thirty years yourself. I’m lucky to have this job. There’s nothing else around here unless we move to the city.”

Jobs were scarce in Blackheath, and I’d been unemployed since I left school four years ago. I had intended to move to Pillsford, but then Dad was trapped in a cave-in at the mine, and in the blink of an eye, everything changed.

“I don’t like you doing physical labor, especially as the only girl,” Dad said, wheeling his chair back slightly, arms folding across his chest in a gesture that was as much protective as it was stubborn.

I sighed audibly. I didn’t like it either, but beggars can’t be choosers. Dad meant well, but since his accident three years ago, things have been tough.

We were fortunate that his work benefits paid out enough to purchase this terraced house, and his pension covered the remaining mortgage. To my mind, he received far too little money, considering he’d lost both legs from the knee down.

“There’s Trixie-May and…” I muttered, shoving a forkful of fish into my mouth.

“She doesn’t shovel coal,” he interrupted.

“Lucky for her,” I mumbled.

A handful of women worked in the office, mostly in the accounts department, and they’d been there for years. Trixie-May handled payroll—despite having no qualifications—and somehow landed the job I had desperately wanted but never even got an interview for.

Her office opened directly into the courtyard, a setup designed to keep us from traipsing through the main offices.

Trixie-May had an attitude and was always dressed to the nines. Her chic and revealing clothes were out of place at Boltons, where coal dust swirled in the air and coated everything. Her high heels would sink into the ground, and it was a wonder they didn’t break.

“I heard she sleeps with...” he pointed his fingers upwards, intimating the owners.

I burst out laughing. “Dad, you really shouldn’t pay attention to gossip. I’m pretty sure she has a boyfriend in Pillsford.” I knew Dad spent hours on the porch, picking up all sorts of nonsense from the people who stopped by for a chat.

“You’re wasted there. You’re far too clever to shovel coal into that stinking smelter,” he insisted.

“If you can find me a job, I’ll go for the interview. But until then, we need to eat. And honestly, you’re looking a little frail.”

His hair had gone completely gray and was overdue for a cut. He hadn’t shaved in days, and he was still wearing the same clothes as yesterday.

His blue eyes met mine. “I just worry,” he said softly, patting my hand.

“Dad, do you need help showering?” I asked gently.

We’d chosen this house because it had a bedroom and bathroom on the ground floor. After a bit of remodeling, it now had a large shower that was level with the floor—perfect for a wheelchair. Upstairs, there were two tiny bedrooms and another in the attic, which I’d claimed.

“Of course not. Besides, Malcolm can help me when he gets home. Where is he anyway?”

Malcolm, my older brother, also worked at Bolton’s Gold Mine, and he was the sole reason I got this job. He was good-looking and charming, and it seemed like every girl he met fell at his feet, but he just played the field.

I’d caught a glimpse of him earlier, his arms around some woman. She’d been striking, though I only saw her from behind. Nearly as tall as Mal, with long, platinum-blonde hair and an alluring figure—exactly his type.

“Who knows? Probably whoring around as usual,” I said, standing up to clear the table.

“Don’t talk about your brother like that. He’s a good boy.”

I was tempted to tell him just how good Mal really was. Since I started working, he barely contributed to food–too busy spending it on girls and booze.

“Then why don’t you ask him what he was doing when he gets home? Trust me, he’s not working overtime,” I shot back, unable to suppress my annoyance.

As I washed the dishes, I heard my father roll his wheelchair into the adjoining lounge, the TV flickering to life.

I tidied up and grabbed a load of laundry, shoving it into the washing machine, deliberately leaving Mal’s clothes in the basket. He could wash them himself. Now that I was working, I was tired of doing all the chores while he flitted around town. Grabbing the newspaper, I stopped to read the headlines and chuckled.

Six Sheep stolen from Holsten’s Farm. This was the extent of crime when you lived in a dump like Blackheath. Not even criminals moved here. We did have the occasional bar fight and theft, but that was about it. As for the sheep, I bet they wandered off and weren’t stolen at all.

“Going to shower,” I called out.

I’d only been working at Bolton’s for six weeks, and shoveling coal into a smelter was grueling work. By the end of the day, I was exhausted.

I locked myself in the bathroom and turned on the faucet, waiting for the water to warm up. I could feel the difference in my body—I had definitely lost weight. It was hard not to when you worked physically demanding hours. Still, I couldn’t help but admire the muscles that had begun to emerge.

During that first week, I thought I might die from muscle pain. It was so intense that I struggled to walk up the stairs, could barely lift my arms, and my fingers cramped with every movement. But I toughened up, and while I still felt tired, the soreness had finally faded.

I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. I wasn’t ugly, but I lacked Mal’s effortless charm. I had my hair chopped into a pixie cut, unable to manage long locks in the heat, and Dad said I looked like a fairy with my large blue eyes and spiky brown hair.

I tilted my head, running a finger over my full lips. Sweating worked wonders for my complexion, and my skin had never been so clear when it wasn’t caked in coal dust.

I showered quickly, wrapping a towel around myself as I emerged from the steamy confines. I did want another job and couldn’t fathom doing this for long, but for now, there were no viable options.

After checking on Dad, I hurried up the stairs. Skipping pajamas, I draped the towel over the door and collapsed onto my bed, which creaked ominously with every turn.

The attic was larger than the other bedrooms and cozy with its slanted walls—my little sanctuary. Not even Mal ventured up here.

Aside from the bed and bedside table, I had a dresser and a single rail for hanging my clothes. One teal wall brightened the space, complemented by contrasting curtains that fluttered slightly in the draft from the window.

Tomorrow was Friday—payday. I could hardly believe how quickly six weeks had flown by. At this rate, I’d be old before I was good and ready.