Mourning Fire

The sea has always kept its secrets, but tonight it feels like it’s listening.

Poppy kneels at the shoreline, the hem of her nightdress soaking in the tide, a tiny hermit-crab shell cupped in her palm. The little creature inside hums faintly, a sound too soft for anyone but her to notice. She presses it to her lips, whispering words meant only for Papa, and then sets it adrift on the waves. The shell bobs once, twice, before slipping under, as though the sea itself has taken her offering.

Just like she does every night, she waits a few heartbeats, expecting to hear a reply from the tiny creatures.

Against my better judgement, I wait with her.

But no reply comes back, no little Tidewhispers scuttle towards us, carrying the murmurs back from the dead. They never do.

“Do you think he likes them, my stories?” she asks without looking at me, her voice barely louder than the water lapping at our ankles.

I swallow against the knot in my throat. “If anyone does, it’s him. You know he never could keep away from a story.”

That earns me her smallest smile, quick as a firefly, before she crouches for another.

I watch it drift away, her prayers in the hands of the gods now.

My only prayer to them is to listen to her. Treat her words like scripture.

The bell rings out in the air, like it always does around this time. Sharp and commanding, urging everyone to go back home, shut the doors and snuff out the candles.

Cold fingers clasp my own when she’s finished, her usual bright smile outshining the dying sunlight.

We pass the soldiers posted at the docks, stripping the boats bare until only nails are left, making sure our fishermen are what they claim to be. My stomach knots. Their movements are stiff, mechanical, as if even a smile has been drilled out of them. I keep my head down, praying they don’t look our way.

We follow the trails of people back through the village with damp feet, the night air heavy with salt and smoke from cooking fires. Lanterns gutter in the breeze. The posters glare down at me in bold red, paper edges curled from salt air, screaming the same message every night: Stay inside, Stay alert.

I catch whispers on the wind, old men sit outside the tavern muttering about the next town over, about fire from the sky and white-eyed beasts nobody’s seen and lived to describe. Though their words don’t spout fear and concern, they sound almost mocking, ignoring the toll of the bell in favour of their heavy beer.

The words, however, curl through the night like the smoke from their pipes, clinging to me even round the cracked corners of the buildings.

Poppy doesn’t hear the stories as she chases after Glasswings, their faint glimmer flicking out of the sky when she cups one in her palm.

Another that will end up in her room I expect.

Little white flowers mark the trail to our gates, coating the ground like a soft blanket of snow. My eyes fall on the trees beyond, the saplings now growing strong – standing together side by side.

Seeing them now, I know I made the right choice not to place them in the damp crypt.

Here, they reach for each other like they did in life.

I tip my head to the ashes long gone, mixed within the tree roots.

At home, Mama’s chair sits cold beside Papa’s, a hollow in the room I can’t fill. My eyes catch on the scarf draped across the armrest, its green edges frayed from love, aching to be worn again. To be touched.

My hand hovers. Just one touch and she might be with me tonight. Just one…Almost.

Poppy darts from the front door, leaving behind little wet footprints leading upstairs. As always, her bedroom glows with the soft light of candleworms clinging to the spines of her books. They cast the shelves in a steady, living glow, their little bodies pulsing like captured stars. Poppy shoos one off the page she’s been reading, and it burrows happily into the quilt instead.

She tentatively places her Glasswing on a bunch of blooming yellow flowers, taking extra care not to disturb its wings.

I lean against the doorway, clearing my throat gently and giving her a pointed look.

“They like it here,” she insists, plucking a candleworm from atop her pillow and placing it on her bookshelf. “It’s cruel to keep them locked up.”

I debate catching them all again, but I bite back my reply.

Tonight, I let her win.

We wipe the salt from our toes, comb the wind from our hair and I wait patiently while she struggles to choose a story, scrunching her nose and biting her fingers.

She clambers into bed beside me, arms stretched, hugging a pile of books.

I catch her yawn, sleep settling on her eyelids as she wraps herself in a cocoon of blankets and her head sinks into the pillow.

We read about the tallest mountains that can hear your deepest secrets, about little frogs that hold the most powerful magic, about fire dancing and drakhean flying. We read until the words blur, until her breathing evens out beside me. For one quiet moment, the world feels as it should.

Just ink and whispers and the hush of the sea.

Light bleeds through my eyelids, morning sunshine warming my face as I crack my eyes open.

Dawn is breaking.

I sit, slowly, grabbing the curtains and shutting them closed. Poppy’s soft snores settle the room, coaxing me back into sleep and it takes everything in me to not give in.

The bed creaks as I shift my weight, toeing the ground and dancing over the scattered books. I lift the door slightly – to stop it scraping the floor – and take the few steps into my own room.

Bare walls and a perfectly made bed greet me as I rummage through the drawers, itching for new clothes.

Cold water runs over my body, making my skin pebble, before I tug my skirts up and my shirt down. I plait my hair, battling with the fly-aways and tiptoe down into the kitchen.

Each door that opens reveals an absence of food, the only thing remotely edible being the unopened jar of jam.

I sigh.

Another trip to the market against the dwindling reserves of my wages, only this time I hope that Poppy doesn’t eat everything before I can make a meal.

I tip my head, peaking out the window to the sun. The fishermen will be back within the hour.

Footsteps pound on the floorboards above me, aiming for the stairs.

“Don’t run down those stairs, young lady.” I don’t shout, she can hear me just fine.

Her feet stall. “I’m hungry.” She walks down the stairs, fist to her eyes as she rubs the remainder of sleep from them.

I scoop her up.

“I wanted you to sleep for longer.” I breathe into her hair.

“Can’t sleep Li, I’m hungry.” She wiggles to get down. I watch as she opens the cupboards, turning around with her hands on her hips – looking so much like our mother. “Did you eat it all?”

I scoff, “Me?”

A knock on the door makes me jump.

“Girls? Are you up?” May’s voice soothes my frazzled mind.

“Were in here!” I echo to the door.

May’s small – but surprisingly strong – frame comes into view, holding a basket draped with a cheesecloth.

“No.” I stop her before she comes anywhere near the kitchen. “I told you, I have enough to get us food.”

“You hush.” She waves me away, “I had leftovers, and I checked your pantry yesterday.” She gives me a glare and I know she would lecture me if she could.

“May, did you make the good cakes again?” Poppy asks, twiddling her hair – the picture of innocents.

“I might have done,” her eyes light up, “if you go and dress I’ll show you.”

Poppy scrambles up the stairs, arms and legs flying. I take a seat at the table, resting my head in my hands and mumbling a ‘thank you’ when a cheese muffin appears under my nose.

“How much do you have left?” May pulls a chair out beside me.

“I told you” I say between bites, “I have enough to last.” The glare I receive is nothing short of fear inducing.

“You know how I feel about it.” She murmurs.

“I’m grateful, May, you know I am.” I swallow the muffin, slowly turning sour in my mouth. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. But this is our home.” I meet her eyes. “We aren’t leaving.”

“You’d be right next door.” She pleads. “Think about Poppy.”

The comment sends an irrational spike of anger through me.

“What do you think I do all day?” I demand.

May looks at me like I’ve slapped her. “You know that isn’t what I meant.” She stands. “I just want to help you.”

My anger deflates, churning the muffin to guilt in my stomach. “I’m sorry.” I say, burying my head in my hands again.

I feel her pat my head, a muffled ‘ridiculous girl’ reaches my ears, she hums her way up the stairs, calling for Poppy.

I pull myself from the chair, peaking into the basket and seeing a loaf of bread, dried fish, muffins, tomato-based sauces and a jug of milk.Leftovers, sure.

Poppy returns dressed, her satchel round her shoulder and face washed. She buzzes beside the basket, and I swat her hand away knowing she hasn’t washed them.

“I’ll walk her to the tutor.” May’s breath leaves her faster than normal. “You best be going.” She hands Poppy a muffin and I watch her stick her little tongue out at me.

We say our goodbyes as I place my own satchel over my shoulder, give Poppy and May their kisses and shut the door behind me. I watch Poppy skip up the pathway, leaving behind crumbs for the blackbirds.

I pass the washery, say my good days and dawns to the ladies hanging clothes out to dry. I rush past the cloud of smoke from the forge, nodding my head to the workers and reminding myself to ask the young lad to look at our chimney.

My feet walk the same steps I do every day, wearing the soles of my shoes out on the cobbles and finally making it in time to hear the bells ring.

Sea foam sprays up and over the docks, coating my feet, making them sting. Men and women shout from the boats, chucking over ropes and I catch one, tying it down.

Baskets of fish are passed along a line of people, eager to earn a goods days wage.

I follow my routine, brushing past the bustle of tired fishermen and setting up my skillet and bucket.

Scraping the scales, I can’t help but overhear a not so hushed conversation beside me. “No one sees them, you old fool.”

“Tis true, I tell you. They haven’t come this far south since I’ve been breathin’.”

“They can’t belong to the kingdom then.”

“It wasn’t right. I’m tellin’ you now. It didn’t have arider.”

The last words are spoken in hushed tones. I lean sideways, trying to catch the rest.

“You’ve been drinking too much, old man. They always have riders.”

“This one didn’t. Saw it swoop and everythin’, wasn’t lookin for nothin neither – was just flyin around.”

I hear a scoff. A few words I don’t catch, and I try to lean further, but my foot tips the bucket over.

A clang sounds out as water spills over the floor.

I mutter a curse, righting the bucket and chancing a glance behind me, only to find that the men muttering are gone – busying themselves with more important tasks. My mind wanders back, cataloguing the rumours circling the village like flies circle dead fish.

People are so quick to dismiss the rumours, but as I look up, I see that the soldiers are back for the daily inspection – and I can’t help but wonder what the truth is.