"Mrs. Lao, you look extra beautiful this morning! The sun really shines on your glamour—it's blinding!"
"Why, Isabelle, you flatter me! How about you come in for some extra bread? I can sneak you a couple pieces, if you'd like!"
"I'm thrilled at the offer, but I can't today. I need to get home quickly, my husband is waiting for me!"
"Husband. . . you were taken too quickly from us! It felt like just yesterday you ran around in your diapers, ha ha ha."
Flushed, Isabelle covered her face. "Mrs. Lao, please don't remind me," she whined, "I was just a child! An impressionable, young child."
"Don't worry, love, I won't tell Charles about how you were back then. He's very lucky to have such a wonderful lady like you as his newly wed wife. Tell him I said hi."
"Will do! Have a great day!"
A cheerful young woman of twenty-three skipped through the streets of Trila. In her hands, a bag of bread, eggs, and other basic necessities swayed side to side as Isabelle Maylor—no, Isabelle Vaughan—swung her shoulders, humming a merry tune. She looked around, excitement spread across her freckled face. Her jet-black, silky hair was tied in a neat braid.
Isabelle's outfit, a modest sundress and sandals, stood out compared to the rest of Trila, whose citizens preferred detailed dresses and formal suits.
She crossed the road and entered North Precinct. Industrious civilians, anxiously checking their watches, pushed past Isabelle hurriedly. She heard some muttering about being late; others cursed their harsh working conditions. Lamenting the circumstances, Isabelle silently prayed to Liege Maisedes, her Lord, to aid them.
To the left, her face paled. "Oh dear."
Three young boys waited in a corner with a small bucket, the outline of their ribs clear and haunting. Disheartening hollowed cheeks and a malnourished aura followed them, scaring off the prim and proper civilians of Trila. Of course, even if the boys were healthy, that didn't mean the wealthy citizens of Trila would help them.
Isabelle's heart dropped and she tried her best not to cry.
Couldn't anyone see these helpless children?
No food, no water, no family. Hope nonexistent in their minds. What hurt even more was that they looked no older than ten: children, helpless children.
She rummaged through her pocket. I only have thirteen dinars, and. . . six qunats. That should be enough for a meal or two. Hopefully Charles has some extra; I'll ask him and come back.
She walked over to the boys.
The youngest one lay flat on the floor, throat parched for water. His ears pricked up at Isabelle's anxious footsteps. Shortly after, the other two children offered muffled groans and looked up.
They saw a heartbroken missus standing before them. In her shaky hand was the distinct outline of Houtis currency. Without letting their famished faces show it, the little boys waited for the lady to speak.
But actions spoke louder than words.
Isabelle crouched and approached the youngest boy. She calmly grabbed his palm and placed the money face down.
"Here," she said, amid the quiver, trying her best not to cry.
The child, Harald, gently took the money and stepped back to hand it to his older brother, Einer. The middle child in the corner, Bian, whispered, "Kind. . ."
Isabelle wiped a tear running down her cheek. "I'm not kind." She stared at Harald, then Bian, then Einer. "This is not kindness. This is humanity."
Isabelle kissed Harald on the cheek. "Buy some bread. With the rest of the money, take a carriage to an orphanage." She searched her pocket once more. "Here, this is the address to an orphanage," she said, handing a paper to Einer.
After checking her watch, Isabelle readied to say farewell.
Einer stepped forward, followed by Bian and Harald; the three hugged her leg.
"Thank you, miss," Einer said through a modest smile.
Harald mirrored him, "Thank. . . you. . ."
Finally, Bian said, "Thank you." The edge of his eyes moistened.
Isabelle promised herself she wouldn't cry. "Please don't thank me," she said. "Stay strong, you beautiful little ones."
Bian looked up and locked eyes with Isabelle. "You are kind, Miss. Really kind."
The three children scurried off to the markets.
Isabelle's vision blurred.
You will feel happiness one day, even if it takes weeks, months, or years. Humans, no matter where they came from, all deserved to feel loved and to be equal.
That was all Isabelle Vaughan ever wanted: for everyone to be happy.
. . . .
[Present Day. . .]
Peeking inside the nursery, Charles tried to cheer himself up before seeing Emory. He didn't want the baby to see his pained expression.
The nursery's light beige walls had edges that were slowly peeling off. To the left of the door, a black crib was positioned to block most sunlight.
Rubbing his swollen eyelids, Charles walked into the room and presented an enthusiastic smile to the boy, who was silent and observant of his surroundings. The abrupt tension made his eyebrow twitch. "He's only two weeks old. . ."
". . ."
"A-Alright, little Emory, i-it's time for Mama's funeral." The latter half of the sentence felt like a dagger tearing through Charles's heart.
Standing in front of 34 Hind Street, they waited for the carriage to arrive. Walking around the city was still not recommended, so with the little money at his disposal, Charles paid for a carriage to take them to East Cemetery.
Finally, the sound of hooves hitting the ground was heard.
Turning his head, Charles saw a blue and black carriage. The driver had a small grey beard and faint silver eyes; his presence timid and meek.
Two horses, strapped via brown leather, pulled the carriage.
As Charles took the first step toward the carriage, the driver shuddered. What's the matter? A droplet of sweat ran down the side of Charles's head. Emory was in his arms—the stroller they previously used had broken. The child's little hands fervently gripped a frozen fish.
Charles glanced at the fish before continuing toward the carriage. Nodding hello to the timid driver, he decided to push the door and let himself in. There were no objections.
The interior was painted white and had two cushioned seats on either side, each big enough for two people. Taking the right side, he sat down and looked out the window. In minutes, the carriage had taken off, and the view outside shifted.
It stumbled through the open, deserted streets.
After the fierce battle everyone had heard of between a general and a captain against a beast, the citizens of Houtis took precaution. They thought maybe King Magnus was right about the danger.
Houses were locked. Families huddled together.
While Charles had no immediate family, Isabelle had introduced him to folks. Mainly, Mrs. Sylvietta Lao, a jolly old lady working at a bakery. She had been close friends with Isabelle, and Charles felt she should know of Isabelle's passing. . . It was the least he could do.
However, the murders increased exponentially. Almost every other day a new victim emerged in the papers. Charles tried not to read them in front of Emory, as the child went frantic at the sight of one.
Screech!
Then came a newly added military stop, and the carriage ceased movement as expected.
Charles heard the driver meekly curse under his breath. What's wrong with a military stop? he thought, scooting up to the edge of the seat. It made sense, considering Houtis's condition.
Four men approached the carriage, all wielding swords and had their hands gripping the handles. "Any weapons in the carriage?" the first man asked. He had black ruffled hair, hazel-colored eyes, and a nose so large it could smell the driver's fear.
"No, sir," the chauffeur responded timidly.
The military official eyed him warily. With a motion of his hand, the other men circled the carriage, poking and prodding it like a dead carcass.
"Who is inside?" he asked in a commanding tone.
". . .A father and his son. They are headed to the c–cemetery."
The military official paused in thought. "Hm. Let them out. I'm going to inspect them." He backed up, making space for Charles and Emory.
The carriage driver trembled before replying, "Right away, sir."
Charles felt a thunderous knock on the walls. Looking out the front window, he spotted a military official glaring at him, who then motioned for the father and son to leave.
Charles exited the carriage with Emory in his arms. "I–Is there a problem, sir?" He scanned the area.
They were on the outskirts of North-East Trila, where houses of mostly poor people who couldn't afford to live in the center were a way off. The official stayed silent and continued observing.
Charles parted his lips as his eyes dilated. Is he okay? I don't want any trouble. . . He looked toward the carriage driver for answers, but only saw clutched knees and a rocking body.
Wind howled throughout the area and hit the fish-holding Emory, causing the baby to drop it. Thud.
Gazing down, Charles spotted it quickly. "Oops. You dropped it." He knew if the fish wasn't returned in a couple of seconds, the whole pit stop would be subjected to intense cries.
As he bent, a sharp pain surged through his hand.
Ouch. . . What the. . ?
A boot mercilessly crushed his fingers into the dirt.