Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 63709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
I set about packing up the vials and herbal packets we’ve spent all week making. Ma’s potions are considered medicine around here. There’s enough to fill two baskets, which will be awkward to carry, but I can deal. I can handle one morning at the market and let Ma sleep in. It’s the least I can do, after all she’s done for me.
I owe her so much more.
The front door of the cottage sticks when I try to open it. I set down the baskets and throw all my weight against it to force it open.
Thick, black vines have grown all over the stoop. They weren’t here yesterday. They must have sprouted up overnight. I prod them with my boot. First the tendril at my window, now these.
I kick a few out of the way until I can open the door further, and scrape the rest of them off. I’m as quiet as I can be, but a wheezing cough echoes down the stairs.
“Rose?” Ma calls from her bedroom. Her scratchy voice makes me wince.
So much for sneaking out. I move back toward the stairs and call up to her. “Sorry about the racket, Ma.” She’s not my mother but when she took me in, her full name—Matron Marphel—somehow got shortened to Ma in my head. “Go back to sleep.”
“You’re going to market?”
“I told you I would. Since you weren’t feeling well last night, I had hoped you’d sleep in this morning. I’ll be back soon.”
“Very well.” She sounds so weak, I hesitate, suddenly worried about leaving her.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to make you some tea before I go?” I turn too quickly and knock a bundle of dry dola leaves to the floor. I hang the fallen bundle back up beside the others. We harvested the dola last week, and they fill the cottage with their rich herbal scent, a cross between sage and oregano.
“No, child. I’m sure I’ll be up in no time. I can make my own tea.”
“You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I’ll be fine. Don’t forget your cloak.”
“I won’t.” Going over to the rack, I stick my tongue out at my heavy cloak and grab it off the hook. It was too much to hope Ma would forget, and I could leave it behind. The morning air is cool and still, but once the suns rise, it will be hot, and I’ll be stuck sweating with my hood up.
“Remember, if you see any Alphas—”
“If I see any Alphas, I’ll keep my head down. I won’t look them in the eye. I won't talk to them,” I promise. Alphas never buy anything from our booth anyway.
“And did you take your medicine?”
“Of course,” I say before remembering that I forgot this morning. Oh well. I took it yesterday. And I'll take it before I get back. Taking a dose a few hours late won’t hurt.
“Good.” Ma’s weak voice sounds relieved. Guilt stabs me. She’s pathological about the weird potion she makes me drink every day. And about avoiding Alphas. “Remember, don't speak to the soldiers,” she repeats. “Stay away from them.”
Well, I was planning on slapping one on the ass, but now that you’ve reminded me twice, I won’t. I bite back my sarcasm. Ma is the closest thing I have to family on this alien planet and I stuff my New York City girl rudeness down for her.
Besides, people here don’t get sarcasm. Which is just fantastic. Sarcasm is my superpower.
On a whim, before heading back to the door, I grab a large, sheathed kitchen knife and fasten it to my belt. If Ma is so worried about Alphas, maybe I should be armed. Too bad she doesn’t have some alien form of Mace.
With a basket handle slung over each shoulder, I head off down the little pathway which will take me to the main road to the market, Ma’s warnings still ringing in my ears.
The suns are rising in the sky—yes, suns, plural—and it’s shaping up to be a hot day. A breeze darts and tugs at my skirts. It feels good, but as I get closer to the village, I pull my hood up over my braids.
At this rate, by the time I’m done at the market, I’ll be tempted to strip everything off and dunk myself in the nearby river. I’ve done it before, but only at night. Ma frowns on my skinny-dipping ventures. “It’s not safe,” she scolds. “There might be Alpha patrols nearby.”
She’s pathological about Alphas. But Ma knows best.
A few months ago, I woke up on a riverbank with absolutely no clue where I was—or even really who I was. I know my name, my age, and occasionally I’ll have flashes of random memories, but otherwise, zilch. Even my memories don't feel like mine. Sometimes, when looking at my reflection in the river or water basin, I’ll flash back to looking in a mirror while a makeup artist painted eyeshadow in brilliant peacock shades onto my face for a fashion show. I’ll recall strutting down the catwalk wearing outrageous designs, but the impressions are faded. Like clips of a stranger’s home movie, glimpses of another life.