Take Back The Skies

Chapter Two

Pale sunlight woke Catherine the next morning, for sleep had come, eventually. Remembering her plans, she grinned widely and stared up at the ceiling. If all went well, that had been the last time she would sleep in this bed. Finally, she pulled herself out of the warm sheets, opened her wardrobe and found her best dress. It was a gaudy purple monstrosity consisting mostly of petticoats upon petticoats, with silver lace at the cuffs and collar, as well as the trim of the corset, and masses of elaborate embroidery. The bodice was too tight and the fabric uncomfortably itchy. She hated it. She took the dress into the bathroom, where Sam had already drawn her bath. Her mind on her plans for the day, Catherine slid into the hot water. The hardest part would be giving her father the slip . . .

Later, she gathered the skirt of her dress so she could make her way downstairs to the kitchen. That was one reason she disliked dresses with huge skirts; they were completely impractical for just about everything fun. You couldn’t run, or climb, and you had to be constantly aware of where your skirt was and whether you were accidentally showing more skin than was deemed appropriate. Trousers were far better, but, of course, ladies didn’t wear trousers.

‘Good morning, Father.’ She walked into the kitchen, every bit the perfect, dutiful daughter.

Dressed in an impeccable navy three-piece suit, his greying brown hair combed to the side and his sideburns neatly trimmed, her father was already eating porridge, and Catherine could see a generous bowl waiting on the table for her. If there was one thing the country had in abundance, despite the food rations, it was porridge.

‘Good morning, Catherine. Can you not do something with your hair? It looks like a bird’s nest,’ he snapped.

‘I had a bath and it’s still drying. I’ll sort it after breakfast.’ He hummed in disapproval, but didn’t say anything, looking back down at the newspaper spread over the table beside his bowl.

‘Anything in the news?’ she asked politely.

‘Nothing unusual. Another battalion has fallen in Erova. There’s going to be another Collection soon.’

Catherine felt a shiver go down her spine. She loathed Collection day. The screams and cries of parents could be heard for hours after the soldiers left.

‘Are there even any children left to be Collected?’ she asked, trying to mask her horror. Every time she went into the lower city, there seemed to be fewer and fewer children about. She feared there would soon be none left at all.

‘Another twenty more have turned thirteen since the last Collection,’ her father said dismissively.  ‘It’s low, but it’s better than nothing. Besides, we shan’t need many more – if all goes well, the war should end before long. Now go and comb your hair. We’re meeting Thomas at nine.’

Catherine hiked up her skirts and ran back up to her room, pondering her father’s unexpected words. What had changed? Was the war truly coming to an end after all this time?

Swiftly she set about untangling the mess that was her long brown hair. The resulting plait was a little rough and uneven, and she knew her father would complain, but he would have to live with it.

‘Hurry up, Catherine!’ Nathaniel called impatiently.

Catherine fastened her favourite silver-buckled boots,

choosing comfort over fashion – her father wouldn’t be looking too hard at her feet – then hoisting her bag over her shoulder, she rushed back down to meet her father in the entryway.

She watched his eyes trail over her less than perfect hair.

‘I suppose you’ll have to do. Let’s hope Thomas will forgive your appearance,’ he muttered, lifting his satchel over his shoulder. Stomach churning anxiously, Catherine followed without a glance back at her home of nearly fifteen years, not wanting to question even for a second her decision to leave.