The Curse of the Blessed

Chapter Two

I've never enjoyed market day.

Actually, that's not entirely true. I've always loved the concept of market day—the quiet, tense anticipation, the younger children doing extra jobs to save up money for knickknacks and baked goods, the way the community bonds as tables are set up and covered with goods. I like the preparation, the Before. The During is what I dislike.

This day was no different. Everything was loud, abrasive. Children shrieked in delight and anger. Adults haggled over prices, talked with each other, laughed politely and not-so-politely at things their friends said.

I don't like overwhelming noise now, and I didn't then either. I winced as I walked through the streets. I flinched when my parents' friends loudly greeted me, sometimes insisting on pulling me into tight, bone-crushing hugs. I jumped each time I heard a kid screech. My instincts told me to run back to my house and huddle under the covers, but I knew my Mam would be mad at me if I did. She always talked about getting past my shyness, working it out like it was a sickness and not just a part of me.

If only she could understand. But she never bothered to try.

I was on a mission that day. She'd sent me to buy potatoes—as big a bag as possible. She'd given me two beautifully shiny copper coins to pay with. Pride filled me, buzzing through my limbs as I pushed through the crowd, looking for the coveted vegetable. I wanted to get it as cheap as possible. If there was money left, I could get myself a treat—a tart or a sticky bun from the bakery.

I finally spotted a table selling potatoes. They were nice and big, piled in large sacks. Perfect. I squeezed between two tall women in the midst of a gardening conversation and sauntered slowly over to the table.

Then I saw who sat behind it.

Bran.

It was three years since the headband incident, and while I had certainly tried, I hadn't been able to summon any more deathbirds. Bran's wariness had faded until it had turned into something else: unbridled malice.

He looked up, and his grey eyes caught mine. Surprise flashed in them for a moment; then he smiled, looked at the bags of potatoes, and turned back to me, mouthing something.

"Make me an offer."

So that's what he wanted. A challenge. I could do that—even more importantly, I wanted to do it. I strode purposefully toward the table.

"I'll give you half a copper for a bag."

He looked up at me from his seat, a pained expression on his face. "Fyra," he said. "Half a copper?"

"That's what I said."

"Do you not know what quality potatoes look like?"

I crossed my arms and glared at him. "Actually, I do. And those aren't them."

His eyes flicked down to the coins in my hand, and he said, "Three coppers. They're worth four, but seeing as you're poor..."

We weren't poor. Mam preferred to save money rather than spend it, and as a result, we didn't get new things until our old ones were threadbare, but that wasn't poverty. That was wisdom. When things went wrong, we were prepared. And things often went wrong, because our town was cursed.

When Bran said we were poor, I wanted to punch him in the face—but I didn't. I wouldn't let him get to me.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I said. "At the most, those potatoes are worth a copper. That's all."

"Two coppers. Last offer."

I shrugged and turned to walk away. When Bran was working at the table, his parents allowed him to keep a quarter of what he made. The more he made, the more he got. He wanted to make as much as possible.