Beauty & Desire *on hold*

4

I stride into the bookseller shop disheveled from pushing and shoving through the crowds. I run my fingers through the ends of my caramel locks to appear moderately sane before dropping my shawl on the back of the coat rack. Lawrence peeks up at me alarmed.

"I did not think you would be coming in today Claire," he states his voice shaky.

"And why would that be Mr. Reker?" I ask as I look down at the stack of books in a pile that I would call my desk.

"Because of your father," he tells me his eyes filled with worry.

I freeze, my vision sharpening. "What about my father," I ask my feet walking toward him like that of a cliff ignoring anything that was previously in my mind.

"He was arrested sometime last night. My sincerest apologies to be the one to inform you."

"He was-he was arrested." I say as I look at everywhere but him trying to sort out what he is trying to tell me.

"Yes, apparently he started a fight or was in a fight and he was not in good shape but the Sheriff was forced to arrest him due to the crowd and his astounding debt."

I scrunch my hands into hair trying to unscramble my thoughts. He was arrested. Last night. Joseph just warned me yesterday, but I assumed I would have enough time before it blew up in my face.

"Would you like a chair Miss Claire. You look quite pale."

"Oh no. I am alright, thank you," I take a deep breath gripping the desk as if it will support my life crashing down around me. I inhale a mouthful of air trying to soothe my shake breath. "If it is alright Mr. Reker, I must return early. I will have to go see my father."

"Of course, of course go along. Come back when you can," he tells me pushing up his spectacles on his face.

I nod absentmindedly and walk outside in the rustling town. Most of the people are about their business going this way and that, but I can see a few noisy glances my way. I begin to make my way in the direction of West of town, the whispers and looks growing. The gossip here spreads like wildfire.

It was bad enough being known as the daughter of Margaret, the bright and glowing mother who fallen with typhoid fever when I was just two. I was always given pitiful looks as a child. Then my father surrendered to liquor to forget about her. I then became the daughter of saint Margaret and poor, heartbroken Bart. Once he ran out of coin, he began gambling spurring on a debt that no one could imagine. Borrowing from crooked people his poor, heartbroken reputation shattered into one of a fool.

I feel that way as I walk towards the local jail. The daughter of a fool. I walk to the building in West side unused to being in the town jail. The stone walls is of an old castle that looked beyond repair. I was surprised the building is even still standing.

I push against the rustic iron door pull which opens at my touch.