Running To You

The Unknown

It was late afternoon when Marcella arrived at a farm. She had walked long, allowing herself only one pastry after breakfast. She knew it was unlikely that they could employ her, but her feet ached and she was willing to take the chance. She straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. After the third knock, the door swung open. A tired face looked at her. It was creased and brown, compared to the lighter complexions of the populous. Intelligent eyes stared into her own, questioning.

"My name is Marcella, I am looking for employment as a nursemaid. I don't suppose you need one?" she asked hopefully.

The face crinkled with many laugh lines, friendly. "Marcella, eh? No we don't need a nursemaid, but you look like you need a pidjher of water."

Marcella blushed. I must look so sandy, she thought. Too bad.

"Nothink to be shambed about, walkink lonk, like you," the woman, as Marcella had concluded, said. "Come in, my namb is Alma, ands about time I had a visitor."

The room was full, but fragrant. Sprigs of spices and onion braids and bundles of herbs hung from the rafters. Baskets of dried fruit and grain pots stood in neat rows along the wall opposite the door. Alma pulled out a stool for Marcella, who gratefully sat down. After some clattering, a jug of water was produced. The water was sweeter than Marcella expected, and the surprise must have shown on her face, for Alma laughed. "My secrej ingredient, for jus for the weary." Marcella nodded, taking another sip, now mindful of her manners. "Tell me, where will you go this evenink? It does not look like yous from arounj here," Alma asked. Marcella looked down. Could she tell her that she had nowhere, that she was a runaway bride? No! she scolded herself. Alma was nice, but it was too great a risk. "I am from the other side of the main city, the farms around ours are struggling," she lied. Alma has an odd accent, Marcella thought.

Alma sounded puzzled, "You thought it would be better here? The drought is everywhere."

A glance at the rafters gave Marcella's thoughts away.

"The herbs grow in spite of dryness, in the righj care," Alma answered the unspoken question. "The city has more work, though is hard," she continued.

Marcella knew she was going to have to remember all the lies she was about to tell. "The town officials fined our family for poor quality goods. I do not care to work for people who can be so cruel," she allowed herself to let a little bit of her bitterness towards Mr. Galchobair slip through. In her head, she was desperately hoping her lie sounded realistic. When she looked up, Alma was nodding. Don't smile, Marcella told herself, keep it angry. Alma looked towards the grain pots, stroking the table corner.

"We have much to be thankful for. Safejy, food, family," Marcella tried not to wince at Alma's words. "Even favour with the merjants who pass through," she looked at Marcella and smiled.

"I love the spices more than any fine cloths or platery. It looks to me you prefer fine cloths." Alma pointed at the ribbon trim around Marcella's coat collar. Marcella nodded. She would let Alma come to her own conclusions. The less lies told, the better. Marcella liked her hostess, but doubted that the civility extended as far as an invitation to dinner or a bed. She knew it was late and had to get going.

"Are there any families you know of who might employ me?" she asked, sad to turn the conversation back to business. She liked listening to Alma's voice, with its strange lilts and oddly rounded words. She enjoyed the aromatic room, so tidy and bountiful. She decided she wanted a kitchen like this, if she ever got her own.

"I believe there might be a a family or two in the village," Alma answered." Where do you stays tonight?"

Marcella answered simply, " Wherever I can lay my head." She knew she sounded improper, but it was the truth, for once. She did not have any pre-destined location. Her original plan was to be caring for a wealthy family's children, with a small room to sleep in, adjacent to the nursery.