THE MAIDEN AND THE DRAGON

2. a new home

Sundays are special. They are the best days of any week. People gather in houses to break bread together and be happy.

Mrs Helene is lenient with nearly everything on Sundays. She cooks the best meals on Sundays, lets us watch movies all day long, but insists we go to bed by eight. Two Sundays in a week will make for the perfect Sabbatical.

The congregation trickled out. Mass was over. 

I am in my Sunday best; elated Uncle Thomas is visiting like he said he will in the fifth letter.  We have developed a steady correspondence within the week and I have had the favour of meeting him once. I did not expect him to be so old – never mind, he is the strongest old man I have ever come by to know.

I packed my suitcase yesterday. My belongings are light; a few clothes, schoolbooks, and writing materials. 

I hold close to Mrs Helene, who stops for the sixth time to talk to yet another fellow parishioner. It is Mr Junior. 

‘Helene I heard about the fire last night, how are you holding up?’ 

I stare intently at my polished, black shoes, holding my breath. It happened last night, while I was reading Uncle Thomas’ letter. Orange flames from the candle somehow fell upon the curtains. There was nothing left of the fabric. Thankfully, nothing was damaged.

‘It turned out to be nothing.’ She explains. ‘Father Ignatius’s speech was mind-blowing as always.’ This is always the best topic for her. 

‘Bewa’ Beatrice waves me over. 

She stood with her mother and siblings. Her father is a church knight and is occupied with the meeting as he alongside his brethren was asked to stay behind. I let go of Mrs Helene’s arm, muttering an excuse.

‘Young woman come back here.’ She scolds. 

I do not understand why she keeps talking to me like that. I am nearly an adult and way older than the foster kids in her house. She should appreciate me, with the way I work so hard as if I have a choice. 

She is refined, but severe in her silk suit and polished brown heels and there is that feathered hat that makes her look peacocky. It flattens her roughness. It is one of her few bests. She always wears the best to church.

‘I said I’m going over to Beatrice.’ I am irritated. She always tells me what to do and how to do it. Don’t I have the brain to think?

‘Don’t you dare use that tone of voice with me?’ 

I bit back a retort. She has been patient and kind all these months and I am not wishing to ruin that memory. Hopefully, I will be leaving today, for good.

I crack a smile. ‘Beatrice is over there.’ I point. Her eyes move over to where Beatrice stands. Beatrice’s smile widens and she waves so hard I think she would topple over in her heels.

‘How come her mother let her wear a skirt so short? A child in my house wouldn’t dare.’ She grumbles turning back to Mr Junior who is anything but wearing a scandalous look. He seems to like it. 

Taking it as my cue to leave I march over to Beatrice. Her skirt is just above the knee and her heels make her leg long looking. She towers a few inches above, at five-seven.

‘Are you coming over?’ she asks.

I visited her house twice for a school project because we were grouped. I am a book girl and I take that way seriously. I don’t get why she keeps on with asking on and on when she knows my answer would be an excuse why I can’t go.

‘Mrs Helene wouldn’t let me, even for you.’ I frown down at the trimmed grass. She places a palm on my shoulder blades. It is true. Mrs Helene is nice enough but too strict for her good. ‘I think I’m leaving here for good.’ For the first time, I don’t feel guilty. I am relieved.