Quill, age 5.
Quill hunched over against the wall, hiding behind his mother's skirts.
"Richard, leave him alone! He's five years old for goodness sakes. He has no idea that drawing on your work papers is bad!"
"That boy is no son of mine. He is ugly, and stupid. He's not fit for life here in the harsh realities of this town. We should get rid of him while we still can."
"Richard! This is Your Son that we are talking about," Quill's mom's eyes grew protective. "You treat him like he's an animal. Like we both are. But we have feelings, and dreams and desires too. You aren't the only one in the world who is affected by your cruel words and selfish deeds!"
His eyes grew still, seeming an even paler light blue than usual. Quill had inherited his mother's vibrant green from her side of the family.
"You speak out of turn, woman. This is my home. I will do as I please here. The boy is my son and I can speak to him however I want."
"Perhaps you can," the woman pleaded, the words having no effect at all on his hardened, arrogant heart, "but actions always have a consequence. We may be free to do whatever we want, but we're never free from the consequences of those actions. They stay with us a lifetime."
"Don't get preachy with me!" He warned, slicing a finger through the air menacingly close to her face. I'm this close to throwing both of you out and getting it over with. I ought to. You've never brought me anything but trouble. Trouble, trouble, trouble, since the first day. I should have married someone more submissive. And far more beautiful."
Quill's mother hung open. "How- how dare you insult me in this way. You know what the worst part is, I'm not nearly as shocked at those ugly words as I should be. I'm so used to it now that I can hardly even be angry. It's infuriating that my standards have dropped so low. If I wasn't an honorable woman I would have said goodbye years ago." She promptly stomped up to their bedroom with Quill in hand and slammed the door, locking it behind her, although she knew it wouldn't do any good if Richard were to come up and try to break it down. The door was old and flimsy, and it wouldn't hold up against his weight.
"Quill, darling, precious, I want you to try and forget that. Your father didn't really mean what he said in the sitting room. He's just tired, that's all. Very tired tonight. And he gets so cranky. It's not you he's mad at."
She forced his eyes to meet hers. "I never want you to let one word he says affect you, you hear me? No matter what he says. I love you and that's what matters. Right?" She asked him.
"Alright," Quill told her, although he wasn't sure if he could ever forget his dad calling him ugly and dim.
"We're going to be okay, right mommy? Dad won't hurt you or me, will he?"
She sighed to herself, seeming sad that he had to ask the question. Quill knew that she had never intended to marry someone like her husband. She had told him when he probed that his dad had 'pretended a lot, like he was in a play'. Quill guessed now that it probably meant his dad had lied to her.
"He won't hurt us Quill. Not right now at least."
"Someday," Quill told her eagerly, "I want to be big and strong and able to take him away from you. Then you won't have to worry so much mommy."
"That's very sweet of you, Quill," she smoothed his hair back. "I just know that you're going to be big and strong enough to take care of anyone. You find someone worth taking care of," she told him, her forehead pressed to his. "And you don't let anyone take her away."
"When you find the person you love, Quill, don't you dare give up on them."
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Gina, age 10.
Gina trembled at her mistress, Miss Karina's, pointed finger. It was aimed at Angelica.
No, no, no, no. She thought. Not the mill. Anything but the mill.
"You," Karina snarled. "Go up to the mill, brat. Get out of my sight."
Gina arched her back and put her foot forward. She wasn't going to let her only friend get hurt. The little girl was six years old. She deserved better than this
"I will go," she spoke loudly, so everyone would hear. "I will take Angelica's place." Little 'Lica trembled beside her. The mill was a large textile factory populated by homeless children who couldn't get anything better. The conditions were horrific, and it was always populated with heartless men whose only concern was money. Many of the people who went never came back. And those who did were always damaged in some way.
Karina turned her icy cold eyes on her. Gina stared straight back. She knew better than to look away. Karina took that as a sign of weakness and you would never be able to get her to grant your request. Finally, Miss Karina looked away, dissatisfied.
"Go girl," Karina dismissed her with a flip of a finger. "What do I care?"
Gina scrunched Lica's tiny hand with her own. It would be okay. If 'Lica was safe then more time in the mil was worth it. Anything was worth it.
Sometimes she wondered at how much the little girl had come to mean to her. She hadn't grown attached to any of the other orphans. But 'Lica was special. Somehow the child reminded Gina of herself four years ago.
That hasn't been so long ago, Gina thought sadly. I've had to grow up so fast these last few years.
As she trudged out the door with a heavy heart, she fixed her mind on the smile on Lina's face.
Is worth it, she reminded herself. If that little girl has a chance to do something with her life unlike the others mercilessly worked to death, that no amount of dirt or sludge or textile machines can stop me. I will protect her to the end.
"'Wina?" Angelica said, grabbing her hand as she made her way to the door.
"What is it Angelica?" she breathed in a soft voice, looking around to ensure that they hadn't provoked Karina's wrath by talking. Then this all would have been in vain.
"Be safe...." Angelica told her, giving her a hug. "I love you."
"I love you too Lina. Take care of the other girls for me while I'm gone. Don't let Karina hurt them."
Angelica nodded, her tight curls bouncing.
Gina had to tug her arm out of Lina's grip. It was so sad; so very hard to walk from her as she stood standing at the doorway with her frightened green eyes. But this was what Gina had decided to do long ago. Protect the others as she had not been protected. Give them a chance. She wanted them to be given a fair shot at life, and there was not a place where they would find happiness easily.
Gina scurried out after Karina shot her a deadly ice glare. As she fled up to the mill, going up and over the small hill, through the village square, and around the bend, she wondered if her miserable life would ever change.
Little did she know just how much it would. Or how much another suffered at that same moment, unknowing of how they would meet.
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Amryn, Age 8.
Amryn dashed around the building, hiding in some shrubbery.
Were they coming? Were they already here?
He giggled to himself as quietly as he could. He had dropped a pastry that he had stolen on Jane Bragstad- the richest, and possibly meanest- girl in the whole world. He licked some of the jam off his fingers. At least he couldn't see the pastry chef anywhere nearby. He carefully peeked around the bushes and out into the open.
"Got you, you thief!" The cook swung him from the ground, dangling him downwards headfirst. Apparently, the portly fellow had followed him. A bad mistake on his part, as a herd of angry children, was now headed their way. Well, they were headed Amryn's way, but they wouldn't stop to ask questions: they were the hit first and look later type.
Amryn tugged his chef's hat down off his head with a flick of his wrist and settled it on his own hair.
"I got you, you thief!" Amryn mocked, in an exaggerated accent. He had learned that the only way for him to deal with his own stress was finding something funny in the situation. The only thing he could see right now was the chef, and he wasn't sure that even mocking him could turn fear into humor.
Not everything can be made light of, he reminded himself.
"Give that back!" The cook grabbed at the hat.
"Give that back!" Amryn repeated with the dramatic accent, mouth twitching.
"Stop it!"
"Stop it!"
Amryn smiled. He hadn't had this much fun since... well, the last time he had stolen from chef Morgenson.
"Morgenson.... buddy..... old friend...."
He winked casually, even though he was scared of the imposing cook. "Let's talk about this. Me a starving young boy, and you a strapping man still in his 30s who only wears a baking outfit. It seems only polite for you to give me some of your cakes. I was just helping you out in your generosity.
The cook muttered under his breath. "I've had just about enough of you in my kitchen. If I catch you and your filthy hands back in my soups or salads or custards or jams, you'll be seeing the other end of a spoon. You touch everything, you rascal! And you never even apologize for it either.
"My attention, cook, is still fixed about the dangerous fingerprints I left behind at the crime scene of the pastry incident. I'm quite sure that they will know it's me. And you. They'll probably suspect we're in this together."
"These are young men we're talking about. They aren't rational; they're illogical at its finest. They see two culprits, well look out. That's the end of both of us.
"No," the cook huffed. "I know what you want, Amryn. You want me to say that it's ok for you to hide us both in my kitchen, but then you would try to either break free before it was time or something else would happen; most likely you eating my hard-worked desserts. That seems to be all that is on your mind: silliness and food. Food and silliness. Those two things, my young thief, will never get you far in life. You need honor and discipline and proper training."
"Train me," Amryn thought, after some delay. He had always wanted to try his hand at baking out, and the baker just seemed to snide that Amryn couldn't stand it. He needed the satisfaction of knowing that the cook was wrong. As the cook was about so many different things.
"Train you!" The man practically blew out steam through his nose. "I don't have the patience to work with beginners and all these street rats who say they know how to do it. How to cook. While as unhappy a relationship as I've had with you, I certainly don't want them in my kitchen."
"I wasn't kidding about the other kids," Amryn told him, pointing down the road at some of the kids coming towards their hiding place with Jane at their head. This was bad.
"Fine!" The cook yelled angrily. "You can stay at my blazing kitchen for a few hours. Just make sure they don't hurt me. I can't afford to look bad for the newspaper interview the local news is doing on my market stand with its own kitchen. They think it's revolutionary. A thought for the future of England."
"Mm-hmm, mmm hmmm I'm sure they all say that," Amryn said hurriedly, with sarcasm, urging the plumper man out of the bushes. "Out you go, they're almost here. Show me to this 'famous market stand'."
"It's not famous..." Morgenson said, rolling his eyes so high they seemed to touch his bushy eyebrows. "Not yet at least." He gave a small moment that he seemed to contemplate for. Perhaps he was thinking about what it would be like to have a famous stand. Everyone did at some point, one of the peddlers had told him. They all wanted to be famous and talked about and have good business. But no one had ever treated Amryn's wonderful father with a morsel of respect. Not one single morsel. So Amryn had decided not one of them was worthy of his attention if he ever became a famous cook or something else. It would be incredible; maybe even achievable for him if he wasn't a cast out who lived on the streets.
"I will be someday though," Morgenson told Amryn with a determined light in his eyes. Amryn recognized it as the same light that other people who succeeded had. It was the light of willingness to try as hard as you can. To go the extra mile even when you didn't feel like it. Because you knew in the end your dreams were achievable.
"I believe in you, Morgenspn," Amryn told him. And he meant it. As many times as he had stolen from the man, he couldn't help but admire him. He had been a distant family friend of Amryn's mother before she left his dad and him. The cook had never expressed interest in taking Amryn in, but when Amryn decided to take a few pieces of bread now and then, the cook never said anything.
Amryn knew his future held more than this, but he nodded anyway. "I'll come with you for now. Then we'll see."
He could see a new beginning in front of him.
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Ro, age 10.
Ro made a gagging noise in the back of her throat, landing another punch on one of the men trying to beat her in her latest match.
In the zone, Ro, get in the zone. She tried to psych herself up for the coming blows. There were always a few well-timed blows that landed on her body through her defense system- some of the more painful than others. She had bruises and cuts and scars all over her body from the fighting. Most had healed recently as she had taken a break due to a rather severe arm injury. She had recently begun to get back to being more involved in the fighting competitions that happened near her beggar community. People paid to come and see her fight these other brutes, and she couldn't let them down or their money and attendance would drop. And she desperately needed every penny.
"Let's get this over with," she muttered in between labored breath. She needed to work out more.
"COME AT ME!" She screamed at her opponents, goading them into anger. It was one of her best strategies, she had discovered. She was quite good at making people angry. She let her anger from so many things that had gone wrong for her lately- her mother's death, her brother's death, her injury- boil through her and bubble over.
"You over there – mule with the huge ears – face me like a man. Or maybe I'm the man and you're the woman," she taunted loudly. Ro could almost feel his manly ego being offended.
"You think you're so smart," he said. His hair hung limp around his face, looking discolored and unwashed as if he never took care of himself. His body was a hulking mountain compared to her small frame, and he towered over her. She knew that wouldn't matter once she started fighting him.
"Let's test that, why don't we?" He said. "You are. Only. A. Girl."
He said the words with venom that only comes from someone defending his pride. That comment that only seems to make them look worse when they want to look better.
Ro smirked. She could beat this man easily.
He barreled toward her like a rock, arms held out to grab at her as he came closer.
Seriously? She wondered incredulously. This was almost too easy.
She swung out of the way of his poor attempt at tactics and vaulted right onto his back, balancing on his shoulders. She wrapped her lithe arms around his neck, tugging as hard as she could.
He ran around in circles trying to knock her off of him, but soon he lost too much air and he began to get to a point where he couldn't breathe. He tried grabbing at Ro, shaking himself, jumping around.... but nothing worked. Ro held on as she had trained herself to do. Slowly his attempts became slower and slower, turning futile as he further lost air. He groped at his neck, tapping out. She let go of his windpipe.
Ro had won.
She let out an enormous sigh of relief. She had needed this victory. And it had barely cost her a scratch. Behind her, the man was moving again. Fury ignited in his eyes, as he looked at her talking so calmly to the shady host of the activities. His pride and ego couldn't take another dent so he just slunk off the stage like a snake.
That's what he's like, Ro thought. A snake.
She accepted the betting money and the prize for winning with a neutral face but a thankful heart. She had learned that displays of emotion on the stage earned you the title of 'weakling' or 'yellow-bellied', names she couldn't afford.
She felt her shoulders relax now that it was over. She had won.
That could easily have gone a completely different way if it had been another man, she thought silently. Someone with more brains and less reliance on strength would have guessed what I was doing. Someone with more strength and brains would have tossed me to the ground and punched me until I surrendered. I need to get back in the game.
She thought the words with fear as well as a rush of headiness. Adrenaline still coursed through her system, and she realized just how much she enjoyed a good showdown. The feeling of victory. It was the best distraction she had found from her pain after losing her mother and brother so suddenly after each other. She had nothing else except for her time pitted against the other fighters. She would need to be top material.
"Miss, I wanted to say you did well today," a man from the crowd said.
"Thanks!" She called back, still feeling odd about being called 'miss', and about being known by the whole of her city. It was a strange curse, she thought, to be popular. And she wasn't sure how much she actually liked it as much; certainly not as much as she had gone in thinking she would. She had naively thought that fame was all about having lots of money and having people like you. She had always liked crowds and attention, so she figured popularity sounded great. Like an ideal place to be for someone like her. But she had found that she like her privacy. She liked her ideals. She didn't want anyone to change her.
Someday, she thought. I am going to make a real difference in this world. Not just as someone famous, but someone who saved people. Really saved others. That's the true kind of hero. Suddenly she wished she could undo her decision to try the wrestling fights and the gang fights, and do something more meaningful with the short life she has. More impactful. Something that would mean something to someone and that tells me that you're story lives on somewhere.
"I'll go," she told herself without hesitation. "Next offer. Right then."
Then she nodded to herself and got cleaned up. Vienn had overheard.