The Thief King

25 | The Black Coin

"The Life of Winter," the name of the annual market held during the apex of winter's clutches. When the snow usually piled up at its thickest and the air blew at its coldest. It was as if Lethilian mustered together and banished the icy lacework for just two days, thwarting a tide that would inevitably return and drown out whatever warmth had been fabricated during its absence.

But the cold is always temporary. It passes; it blinks and it vanishes until summer closes its eyes to sleep once more and leaves the door open to its harsher, beautiful sister. Unlike grief. Grief lingers and consumes its siblings. It is an everlasting burn within a heart, within Sera's heart. She had once thought the ache would yield to other aches, to other pains, or at least make room for other siblings. And in many ways it had, but once a year it gathered its wings and spread them out, banishing what happiness and peace she had gathered in the year. It devoured her with an appetite so astute and so consuming she drowned in it. It welcomed its brothers, guilt and sorrow, and afflicted her with burdens she knew she had no reason to shoulder.

Why her? Why not her? Questions with no answers, no end. An infinite cycle of unrest. Why did she survive and her mother not? All facts pointed at the surrender of Sera's life. The plague had found her first, caught her in its web first, and yet it had released her; it saw her unworthy of its fatal kiss. But her mother...

Death was infinite, and so grief was too.

The market had once been a tribute to the renowned baby boom that commenced during the time couples were banished to their homes, where they sought warmth and tenderness in each other's embrace, and replaced the icy kiss of winter with the compassionate caress of lovers, but the plague had changed that. It had become a different kind of celebration, a celebration of life, of survival.

A decade had passed since the plague had swept through Lethilian and claimed the lives of near half its populace. Sera's mother had been one of the last victims to fall prey to the fevered dreams and blisters. Sera traced her fingers over the round indentation on the back of her palm. Her scar. Her reminder. Her curse. Waking up days before her tenth birthday to find her mother no longer at her side but shivering in a cot next to her had been one of the worst moments of Sera's life. She remembered the slow realization and how it trailed a wake of numbness as it swept through her body and seized her. Controlled by only the need to fix it, Sera used all her mother had taught her and more to heal the woman that had sacrificed so much, and for a day, the day before her birthday, she had thought that perhaps it had worked. That all her sleepless nights of reading, watching and waiting, waiting, waiting and waiting had paid off. Her mother had rosiness to her cheeks, had a light in her kind eyes, and life to her laughter. Sera's heart had swollen with pride and relief and love. So much love for the brave, strong soul that she knew she could not live without. Not yet. Never yet.

And then she woke up, and her mother did not.

Sera blinked back the tears that always sprang to life at the thought of her birthday. She dashed a hand over her cheeks, which were thankfully still dry. Turning, she met Evelynn's concerned frown. Sera shook her head, hoping it was clear she did not wish to discuss this. Evelynn pursed her lips but turned away, apparently willing to let it go for now. Nena was muttering to herself as she dusted a high shelf. Her short figure elevated on a small wooden box and even further on the tips of her toes.

Sera cleared her throat, hoping her melancholy would not be heard in her voice. "Would you like me to-"

"No!" Nena snapped, she lowered to her heels and turned to face Sera. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound harsh, I'm just" -she huffed like a blocked chimney and Sera imagined the smoke billowing from her ears- "I'm sick of being short."

Sera forced a smile. "If you would like me to look for a second box..."

Nena scowled. "My stubby legs and I can manage with just one, thank you very much." With her hands on her hips, she craned her neck to look at the top shelf, her target. "Would Mrs Bailey even notice if the top shelf has not been dusted? The bag of bones has problems climbing stairs, let alone a box. Can you image her legs bending like this and supporting her afterward? I don't. I think they may snap, or at least buckle."