Gold Weaver | ✓

vier

"I'm leaving, Martha."

She watched me, not knowing what to say. "Can I ask where you're going?"

"I don't know," I said, honestly. "I don't have time to explain but I've got to get as far away from here as possible."

"So you're leaving me?"

I couldn't let her think I would just up and run off, leaving her in this dreary village all alone.

"It's the last thing I want to do," I told her. "But they're—" my voice cracked and I couldn't stop my lip from trembling. "—going to k-kill me."

"I'm sorry what?" She asked, steadying herself on the door. "Who are?"

"The King," I said. My words were hurried and I didn't know if I was making any sense but I needed her to know before I, possibly, never saw her again. "My father met with him. They argued. He said that I could turn straw to gold and now the King wants me to show him."

"And at what point is he trying to kill you?"

"If I can't do it," I said. "My punishment is death."

"Isn't that a little extreme?"

"You didn't hear what my father said to him," I mumbled. "Dark and horrid things."

She looked confused, frowning so hard I thought she'd break her face. And for someone terrified of wrinkles, I knew by that action alone that she realised just how serious this all was.

"Stay here then," she said at last, opening the door wider. "Hide here. And then we can figure something out. Tell him it was a misunderstanding."

"They'll find me," I told her because I knew the second place they'd look, the first being my home, would be the home of my best friend.

"Well then let me come with you," she said, eyes hard and unwavering. In that moment, I didn't realise how much you could love someone. I thought my heart would swell to the size of my head and just burst cleanly out of my chest. "Mum'll understand."

"You can't leave her," I said. "I know how much you argue. But you can't leave her. She loves you so much. You can't lose that." Trust me, I wanted to say. Trust the girl who's own father left her to die. "And I won't let you endanger yourself. They'll kill you, too, Martha. For helping me run, they'll kill you. I'm not dragging you into my mess." Or my father's.

"Please, promise me you'll be careful." I'd never seen Martha cry about something real. Films and books were another story. But I'd never seen her cry because of something that was happening in the real world. And yet, her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. "Promise me you'll be safe."

I couldn't promise anything, I knew that. So I did what my father always did. I skirted around it. "I love you so much. I don't want you to ever forget it."

"I love you, too," she said, colliding into me as she launched into a hug. She squeezed me so tight I almost couldn't breathe, but I didn't want to tell her to loosen up. It was exactly why I needed, just as it was to her. "Wear those red knickers. Something to remember me by."

I laughed, despite myself. "I'll remember you with or without the lingerie."

I didn't tell her that I was already wearing them. That I'd had the same thing in mind before I left home. It was so ridiculous and even a little gross but I just couldn't care less. Physically, I didn't have it in me to care any less.