The Obligator's Daughter

Home

It was late in the afternoon when Bem returned home to her tenement. The tall, block walls, topped with battlements, cast a long shadow. She entered the hall and slowly shuffled her way down the long row of identical ironwood doors, her feet knowing exactly which one to stop at without her needing to raise her eyes to check. The grey stone walls seemed to shrink a little more around her each day when she walked this route. The door creaked open, and Bem felt the weight of the wicker basket on the other side being pushed aside. The allotment had arrived.

Inside, Bem stooped to pick up the basket of food from the floor; latching the one-way flap in the door through which it had been delivered to stop it banging, should there be a breeze. What would it be today? Easy question - more preserved meats, hard bread, tasteless vegetables. Bem didn't need to look to be sure. It was the same every day.

It was a modest dwelling; two sleeping chambers with a joined kitchen and sitting area, all heated by a single charcoal fire in the grate. Bem's back felt stiff after her day sitting on the hard pew and groaned as she lifted the basket to the bench. Drawing a dull steel blade from the wooden block, she bent to the task of preparing dinner. She chopped dried pork into strips, turnips into cubes, and bread into slices, arranging it all on a board which she took to the table along with two tankards of water. Her father would be home soon, but she still had a few minutes to herself. Bem wiped her hands on her brown cotton shift - it needed a wash anyways - and went to her bedchamber.

Digging under her thin straw mattress, she reached between the slats of her bed until she found the string. Undoing it, she heard the thump on the floor and reached under the bed to retrieve three books. She set them on the bed. This was her secret pleasure, of which father and everyone else knew nothing. As always, Bem's heart raced as she stroked the books' covers, feeling the scratchy surfaces, scored and worn rough in places by years of handling. The age-old leather smelled of excitement, and danger, and she knew when she opened one the musky waft of brittle parchment would be more exciting still.

The first book was dark blue with faded silver embossed writing sunk into the cover: Barthelom's Bestial Bestiary.

Not tonight.

Bem put the book aside and considered the next. Fables and Fairies, gold with black writing, was one of her favourites and she knew every word on its brightly illuminated pages.

She did not feel like reading that one tonight either.

Bem reached for the last.

The final book's cover was a rich burgundy, and although the white embossment was so worn as to only be visible in flecks, like constellations in a sunset sky, Bem could still make out the title: Beyond the Ken of Women and Men – The Art and Practice of Magic. She gently peeled back the cover and leafed through the pages. In truth, she understood none of it - the language was old, and the terminology arcane. However, the painstakingly illuminated diagrams and archaic typeface never failed to fill Bem with awe. The book was from a different time, long ago, more wondrous than now. Bem wasn't sure if she believed in magic, but the book raised the tantalising prospect. What if it was, somehow, real? She felt a chill creep down her spine. These were dangerous thoughts, and she felt disloyal by entertaining them.

Footsteps outside. Bem drew back to the present, and the rattle of the doorknob. She slammed the book shut and threw it with the other two under her bed, telling herself she would tie them back up later. She went to the main room. Just in time.

Bem's father threw open the main door and shuffled into the room. As always, a waft of tobacco accompanied him. Hanging his coat on a brass hook inside the door he turned and looked at Bem, his mouth hanging open and slack, his dark hooded eyes unreadable. Then, he wordlessly sat on his stool at the table. Bem sat opposite him, familiar nausea in her stomach as she waited for him to eat.