Madrigal: Book 1 of the Bel Cantos

Padda: A New Day

Padda slept, restless and cold under her thin blankets. Her dark hair spread out in a luxurious black fan around her face. Her eyes and mouth moved as she dreamed; her hands twitched like small mice under the threadbare wool of her blankets. The wind, spiteful with ice and needle-like hail, shrieked and whistled around the shed in which she lay.

A tall shadow loomed over Padda's bed. A thick hand, tipped with cruelly sharp nails, hung above her pale, sleeping face.

Whack! Mrs. Antipova's stony right hand slapped Padda into consciousness and sent her tumbling to the floor. She slammed into the rough wooden planks, her breath whooshing out in a steam cloud. Hay from her makeshift bed cascaded down around her and stuck in her hair. Wind and dirty gray snow blasted against the windows, twisting itself into the room through the cracks and chinks in the walls. Frigid air seeped up between the rough pine boards of the floor, already trying to suck the heat from her body.

"Is already dawn. You sleep late," Mrs. Antipova rasped.

Padda lay dazed for a moment, face throbbing, and then turned on her side to get up. She froze under the twelve eyes of the enormous Tick-Spider that crouched underneath her bed. It was the size of a kitchen rat, with spindly chitin legs as long as its body. It reared up, exposing the long spike of its stinging tongue as its legs scrabbled over the rough pine planks of the floor. The swarm of skin-mites that lived on its back sizzled and popped like cooking-fat, leaping from the Tick-Spider's back to disappear into the cracks between the boards.

Years ago, the first spring after Mrs. Antipova had bought Padda at auction and brought her home to the farm, they happened across a deer as it lay dying from the sting of a Tick-Spider. The poor creature had been stung on a hind leg, and the wound had swelled to the size of a melon. The deer lay by the side of a stream, heaving and thrashing, screaming piteously. She begged Mrs. Antipova to help the deer, but the woman only grabbed her and pulled her away, with a stinging slap on the rear and a warning to stay away.

Later that day, Padda snuck back to the stream, arriving only to see the animal's miserable end. The deer's eyes rolled toward the sound of her moving through the brush. Its screams had been replaced by hoarse, pleading mewling. Baby Tick-Spiders had burst from the wound on the deer's leg, and then burrowed back into the meat of its shoulder. She could see them moving under the flesh. Scores of Tick-Spider young churned in the dying creature's exposed innards, where the eggs had hatched. The smell made her eyes water.

Padda crashed back through the brush, sobbing, and raced back to her new, unwanted home. She received a beating for abandoning her chores, but she hardly felt it. During the whipping, administered with grunts of effort and hoarse admonitions by Mrs. Antipova, the memory of the deer remained etched in her mind—still horribly alive and aware, twitching and shaking as it was eaten alive from the inside out.

The spider moved toward her, its eyes reflecting the dreary light that leaked into the room like cold water. Padda placed one palm flat on the floor to push herself up, forcing herself to move slowly even when a splinter embedded itself in the soft flesh of her hand. She felt the blood trickle from the wound and was grateful for the warmth.

"I said wake up, useless bitty!" Mrs. Antipova barked. She smacked her broom down onto Padda's bed, sending up a choking cloud of sodden hay-dust. Padda fought the urge to sneeze, eyes watering. The Tick-Spider stalked forward, its chelicerae unfolding. Yellow venom dripped from its fangs, and its tongue weaved, preparing to sting. Looking past the spider to the other side of the bed, she could see Mrs. Antipova's feet, clad in men's work-shoes. She tapped one square-toed boot, the sound of a cane before a beating. Padda pushed her hand harder into the floor, grinding the splinter into her flesh. Hunger rumbled in her belly again, and the spider tensed and crouched lower, preparing to leap.

Splat! Padda smashed one small hand down on the spider, crushing it. The Tick-Spider burst like a rotten egg, splashing glutinous yellow guts in every direction. She stared at Mrs. Antipova's shoes, and between a breath and a silent curse, wiped her dripping hand on the floorboards. Her pulse beat so hard in her ears that she could barely hear Mrs. Antipova's increasingly strident demands.

She popped to her knees, a large smile on her face. "Already up, Mrs. Antipova!"

The woman rolled her eyes and brought a hand to her chest in mock surprise. "Oh, very well then, highness! Is time for morning bath in virgin milk and gold coins!" Her accent turned the word 'virgin' into 'weer-gin'. She could speak Ruskan, Padda's native language—but she only addressed Padda in roughly accented Common. Mrs. Antipova was a stolid, brick-colored woman with a butcher's eye for the worth—or lack thereof—of items. Any item—wool, coal, or this fifteen year old mongrel Ruska girl purchased at auction. Antipova raised her whisk-broom threateningly.

"Now to hurry up, damn your ungrateful eyes!" Mrs. Antipova swatted at the bed again. Padda was already yanking up her stockings and buttoning her shirt and sweater. She threw a threadbare wool doshlava around her skinny shoulders and tied it in front. She jammed a kerchief into one pocket of her skirts and stepped into her wooden clogs as Mrs. Antipova stalked toward her to deliver a swat with her broom. If she was in a particularly foul temper, Mrs. Antipova sometimes used a wooden meter stick; one swat across the backs of Padda's thighs made even walking a painful chore. Padda flung the clean laundry and mending into her woven basket, then pulled on fingerless wool gloves stained with the fruits of long labor.

"Damn... damn... skinny-cow!" Mrs. Antipova spat. "Is already twenty minutes of six, and you move as slow as pregnant goat."

More cold air blasted in through the curtain Padda had been grudgingly allowed for privacy. No matter how many nights she sat awake, patching and re-patching, the worn material did little to keep in the meager warmth that emanated from the fire—and only when she had enough wood to keep it lit.

Just as Padda pushed aside the curtain to leave, Mrs. Antipova spoke again.

"One thing more, Miss Smile-So-Sweet."

"Yes, Mrs. Antipova?" She turned, wearing the frozen smile she had worn like a mask for the past ten years. No matter how many times she practiced, it always felt like a scream inside.

The remains of the Tick-Spider splatted into Padda's face, the warm yellow guts oozing into her eye, its spindly legs twitching. One of the legs caught on her lower lip as it fell to the floor.

"When done all working, clean up damn room! You have bugs!"

"Yes, Mrs. Antipova." Padda bolted. Outside, despite the cold, she welcomed the stinging rain. It hid the sound of her crying.