Page 7 of Never Ever After

“Don’t worry; I’ll know where to find you. I always collect my debts.”

As his mouth lifts into a smirk, my insides clench. He holds my gaze a moment longer, then draws the curtain back over the window. The horses trot briskly along the muddy trail that cuts around the forest, pulling the carriage after it. I listen till the clop of hooves fades into silence, then make my way through the trees. It’s safer to keep my distance from one who moves in the circles of power and privilege. Those like him walk a different path, entering carriages and mansions, while I remain outside. He won’t trouble himself to find me, and I’m good at staying hidden. Yet what I owe him stretches between us like spider silk… I better not be the prey tangled at the end.

Ahead, the path forks—the left side leading to my home, the other going past an overgrown pond, a short walk from where my aunt and uncle are buried. I used to visit them often, but Mistress Henglan doesn’t like it when I do. And whenever I went, I found myself wishing for things I can’t have, those lost… until it became easier to stay away.

While I’m in no hurry to return, Mistress Henglan’s temper will be foul today, worse if I’m late. I must appease her anger, but I won’t surrender the silver pressed against my waist like hard knots, the only money I’ve ever managed to hide from her. It’s enough to get away from here, though not to build a new life.

As I head left, a sweetness drifts into the air, of ripening pears, though it’s far too early in the season. A cluster of wild pear trees grows close to the pond; I almost forgot them as they’ve never borne fruit. Drawn by the fragrance, I turn onto the other path. The grass grows thicker here, clusters of bamboo speared among them. I hurry toward the trees, halting at the sight of their branches laden with yellowing globes of fruit—perfectly ripe, some teetering on the brink of spoil. My eyes widen at this strange phenomenon, the ache in my stomach a pressing reminder that I haven’t eaten all day. Reaching up, I pluck a pear, devouring it in a few bites, then another. They are sweet, crisp, and delicious. Pulling off my coat, I pick the best of the fruit, climbing higher up to find more until the branches dip beneath my weight.

The sun sinks lower, shadows stretching long, the air losing the brittle heat of day. Ahead, light fragments over water. I almost don’t recognize the pond—utterly transformed. Flowers bloom all around, their fragrance a breath of spring. Some are shaped like bells, pale fans, delicate sprays. In the dark, their petals shimmer with an unearthly radiance.

A coldness creeps over me. Is this magic? It shouldn’t exist here, an ability only those of the wicked Mist Island possess. Just the whisper of it sufficed to draw the late king’s soldiers, who would seize anyone with a hint of association with magic. Few went willingly, none returned.

Enchanted or cursed, I should flee this place. Yet no one is watching me, no one to carry tales. And while I’m afraid, curiosity prickles, drawing me closer.

Reeds circle the large pond, its waters clearer today like a storm has swept through. As I kneel by the bank, my reflection stares back at me. Black hair grazes my elbows, my dark eyes fringed by thick lashes. My small mouth lends me a somber air; I’m not used to smiling. Sweat has carved streaks across my cheeks, running rivulets through the powder, the painted moles closer to inky splotches. I wince, washing my face with the cold water, trails of dirt running down my chin. On the days my face is clean, a few turn to watch me—but most of the time I’m tired, covered in sweat and grime, and the last thing I want is to be stared at by a stranger. One thing I’m glad for is despite our lack of money, Mistress Henglan has never tried to sell me to those teahouses where patrons are offered more than food and wine. And it saddens me that life has come to this… where I’m grateful to not be sold.

I pull out the stale bread from my pouch, picking away the mold. Though I’m not hungry anymore, I don’t like wasting food. Taking a bite, I chew methodically, though it’s like eating paper with a sourish tinge. My mind drifts to what my aunt used to bake before she fell ill—the soft buns stuffed with sweetened red bean paste, some studded with sesame. And how my uncle taught me to lift them from the bamboo steamer the moment her back was turned.

“Don’t end up a thief like your uncle,” my aunt would scold half-heartedly when she caught me.

Too late.

My chest clenches. I loved my uncle, eagerly anticipating the times we spent together. He taught me to fight and to ride on his horse. Away from my aunt’s watchful eye, his teachings extended from how to lift a pouch from a belt to palming food from the vendors. Lessons of life, he called them, though my aunt hadn’t agreed.

My heart aches, my thumb rubbing my ring. While it’s been a few years since his death, my aunt died so long ago her face is a hazy silhouette. What remains is a feeling, her warmth, and how our home had smelled of bread, tea, and herbs. It doesn’t smell like that anymore.

The tears I’m holding back slip down my cheek, falling into the pond. Something darts beneath the surface, a silvery blur: a fish. I imagine how it would smell, spitted and cooked over the fire. Dropping the bread, I pick up a stick with a pointed end, hardening myself. I don’t like spearing them, watching them struggle—but fish is a good meal, one that might be stretched if preserved in salt.

The last rays of the sun flare across the sky as the fish swims closer. It pushes its head from the water, cold droplets spraying me. A carp, with glittering scales and golden eyes, its gaze seeming to fix on my hands. At once, I tuck the stick behind my back—tensing, though unsure why.

“Eat me and I’ll curse you with the worst stomachache you ever had,” the fish says.

I stumble back, my mouth falling open, too stunned to move or speak. “You’re a fish,” I sputter at last. “How can you talk? Is this a trick?”

“No more a trick than the pears you’ve harvested,” the carp replies, staring in the direction of my hoard.

My gut churns uneasily. “You did this? The pears, the flowers?”

“The place was barren when I arrived. The plants and trees needed just a little encouragement.”

“Impossible.” Disbelief pulses in my tone as I shake my head. “Fish can’t talk. You can’t… do such things.”

Its eyes are as bright as twin suns. “Trust what you see if not my words. Don’t let ignorance cramp your mind.”

My thoughts scatter. This creature doesn’t belong in the Iron Mountains but in one’s dreams or nightmares… or someplace like Mist Island where it’s said magic abounds.

There is danger in being here, speaking to this creature. Yet a talking fish must be worth its weight in gold—money that I need to build a new life away from here, far from Mistress Henglan. All I need to do is catch this fish… exchanging the carp’s freedom for my own. Guilt crowds my chest, but honor is for the wealthy and privileged. Moreover, the fish will be cherished, a prize in some magnificent estate, far better than this decaying pond.

I drop the stick; I can’t risk hurting it. Bending down, I pick up my discarded bread, holding it out. “Are you hungry? Come closer so I can feed you.” My smile is too wide, too eager.

“Are you trying to catch me?” The fish stares at me balefully, wise to suspect me. “If I’m forced from these waters, I’ll die, so you can forget about selling me.”

Lies, to save itself. But I shake my head in mock sympathy as I step closer, softening my voice like I’m speaking to a nervous customer. “Are you trapped here? I want to help you.”

“I don’t believe you.” The fish darts away, resurfacing on the far end. “Come back when you’ve decided not to harm me.”

It ducks beneath the water before I can reply. I wait, but it doesn’t return. Frustrated, I fling the bread to the ground. Tomorrow, I’ll return with a net and a bucket to catch it. The carp is my key to getting out of these mountains.