LITMIR.BIZ

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fumed. “This is—”

      “Riley,” Mrs O’Chanter interrupted, “why don’t you go and clean up in the back until I finish.”

      “But—”

      “Riley, now.”

      Rye heard the finality in Mrs O’Chanter’s voice, so she turned and marched towards the storeroom. She gave Boil and the soldiers a glare as she passed through the curtain in the doorway. As soon as she had made it through, she quickly turned and peeled back a corner.

      Normally, Mrs O’Chanter only sent Rye to the back when she was about to do something she thought Rye shouldn’t see. Maybe she would loudly chastise the Constable and soldiers, letting everyone on Market Street know what they were up to. Rye hoped she would chase them out of the shop. Even though it was against the Laws of Longchance, Rye knew that Mrs O’Chanter kept a sharp boot knife strapped to her thigh under her dress. She called it Fair Warning. Rye had watched her chase away a gang of thieves once – one of them had almost lost a thumb. That was a lot of fun.

      Instead, she heard Mrs O’Chanter say, “Of course, Constable Boil.”

      Rye frowned as Mrs O’Chanter untied the blue ribbon and handed it to the Constable. She removed the pins too and her dark hair fell past her shoulders as Boil pressed the ribbon into his pocket. Mrs O’Chanter unlocked a small chest and emptied a pouch of bronze bits into his hand.

      Rye pulled away from the curtain and slumped down in a corner. She crossed her arms and her ears went scarlet with anger.

      Even after all these years, it seemed her mother could still surprise her.

      

      THE O’CHANTERS’ cottage was the largest on Mud Puddle Lane, which is not to say that it was big or fancy, just that it had three rooms instead of two, and an attic Rye wasn’t allowed in any more, ever since the time she fell through the ceiling and nearly crushed her sister. It also had a secret workshop Rye wasn’t supposed to know about, but did.

      Mud Puddle Lane was on the northernmost side of town, which made for a long walk to Market Street and The Willow’s Wares. It had a view of the salt bogs and, from the roof where Rye kept her pigeon coop, you could see the edge of Beyond the Shale, where towering, centuries-old pine trees swayed in the winds. Mud Puddle Lane was the one village street outside the town’s protective walls. An accident had destroyed its section of wall many years before and, for one reason or another, it was never rebuilt. Rye’s mother wasn’t a fan of walls anyway.

      Many people wouldn’t appreciate a view of the bogs, and most would prefer to live as far away from the forest’s edge as possible. Mud Puddle Lane was known to be the first stop for any hungry beast that might crawl, slither or lurch from the trees. Bog Noblins were the most vile and malicious of the lot. Their jagged teeth and claws dripped with a disease, making their bites poisonous. Three heads taller than a full-grown man, with bulging, runny eyes and lice infested, red-orange hair in all the wrong places, they could bury themselves deep in the bogs and mudflats during the coldest days of winter and go months without eating. Unfortunately for Drowning, with spring came the hungry season.

      Rye was too young to remember the last time a Bog Noblin ran loose in the village, but she’d heard the tales. It had begun with the disappearance of a few reclusive woodsmen and stray travellers – easily written off as a hungry bear or pack of wolves on the prowl. The livestock on remote farms went next, followed by the farmers themselves. Then the village children began to disappear. In some parts of town – all of them. None were ever seen again.

      Luckily, that was all long ago. Nevertheless, once, after some implausible stories from her best friend, Folly Flood, Rye couldn’t help but ask, “Mama, what about Beyond the Shale? Shouldn’t we worry about monsters?”

      To which Abby O’Chanter had replied, “Riley, have you ever seen a monster come out of the forest?”

      “Well, no.”

      “There you go,” Abby had said. Then, she’d added with a wink, “Besides, if one did, wouldn’t you rather be the first to see it coming?”

      “I suppose you’re right,” Rye had said. And that had been the end of those worries.

      Still, that night at supper, Rye wasn’t feeling particularly thrilled about where they lived, or anything else for that matter. She sat with her mother and her little sister Lottie at the big table by the fireplace, picking at the fleshy white meat in the cracked shells on her plate. Her place setting was remarkably tidy. Typically, when Rye was hungry, the table and floor looked like a pantry raided by squirrels.

      “Sea bugs again?” Rye said. “I wish we could have something else.”

      Sea bugs washed ashore in piles each morning. They were brown and grey until you threw them into a boiling pot, then they screamed, turned red and fought with each other to escape. Rye felt no gratitude towards the deranged person who had first strolled along the sand and eaten one.

      “Cackle fruit!” exclaimed Lottie, banging her spoon on the table. Rye wondered if Lottie would outgrow the banging – and the yelling and fussing – when she turned three. That was coming soon, but not soon enough.

      “Eggs are for morning,” Abby said. “Besides, something’s been troubling the hens. They haven’t laid all week.”

      “Uh-oh,” said Lottie, bending her head over the big claw on her plate. As she pecked at it, her nest of red hair bounced and coarse strands flew out in all directions like a barn fire. Her hair was nothing like Rye’s, which was brown and chopped short above her shoulders, or their mother’s, which fell long, thick and black down her back.

      “As for you,” Abby said, pointing a spoon at Rye, “be thankful we have sea bugs and bread. You know we can’t afford to eat beef or chicken every night.”

      “Well, we could …” Rye mumbled.

      “And what do you mean by that?”

      Rye bit her lip. “Nothing.”

      Abby always seemed to know when something was weighing on Rye’s mind. Rather than cuff her, or warn her not to talk back, Abby usually tried to help. It wasn’t easy being Rye. Abby seemed to know that.

      “What is it, Riley? You’ve been upset all day.”

      “It’s just … the Constable. He lied to us today. You knew he was making up laws and you didn’t say anything.”

      Her mother nodded.

      “Why not?” Rye said. “You let him treat us like we’re stupid.”

      “Me no stupid, me Lottie,” Lottie said. She made an angry face and pounded her fist on the table.

      “Of course, Lottie,” Abby said and patted her red tuft.

      Abby looked back at Rye. “The Laws of Longchance, Riley. You know that we – women, girls – we’re not supposed to know those things. We’re not supposed to know how to read or write.”

      Unless you were a Daughter of Longchance, Rye thought, in which case none of those laws applied. Her mother had told her that there were other places where girls and women could do anything they wanted. Abby had grown up in one of those places. When Rye asked why they couldn’t move there, Abby told her it was complicated. When she asked again, Abby said there were worse things than not being allowed to read or write. The third time, Abby sent her down to catch the basement wirry under The Willow’s Wares.

      “Those are stupid laws,” Rye grumbled now, her ears turning pink.

      “They are stupid, old-fashioned, terrible laws that need to be changed,” Abby agreed. “And, as you know, I refuse to follow them—”

      “L-O-T

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