Light Girl

The household was soon filled with children from various backgrounds, some half siblings to the girl and some step siblings or abandoned. The children were a ragtag group, different in appearance and age, but united by their suffering. Although, they were to keep themselves looking immaculate should an unwelcome guest from the city arrive. Their mother kept strict order in the house, demanding silence and punishing even the smallest sounds. The children had come to be very careful and precise. Each child knew what a mistake would cost them.

 

One morning, as the children gathered in the kitchen according to their mother’s orders, her voice cut through the silence like a knife. “I can hear you shuffling,” she snapped, her eyes darting over the children like a hawk searching for prey. “Who knocked over the bucket in the hall last night?”

 

The children froze, glancing at each other with wide eyes. None of them dared to speak. The girl’s youngest half-sister, a small, freckled child with wide, terrified eyes, began to tremble. Her lip quivered as she tried to keep her tears in check.

 

“I won’t ask again,” their mother hissed, taking a step forward. Her shadow seemed to stretch across the room, swallowing the light.

 

The girl stepped in front of her little sister, shielding her with her own body. “It was me,” she lied, her voice steady. “I tripped on the way to the pantry.”

 

Her mother’s hand struck out, a quick, practiced motion that caught the girl on the cheek. Pain flared, but she held her ground, staring defiantly at her mother. The other children watched in silence, their faces pale but their eyes filled with a quiet, smoldering anger.

 

“You’re clumsy and useless, just like your father,” her mother spat before turning away. “Clean it up, all of you. And make sure the house is silent, or you’ll go without dinner.”

 

As soon as their mother left the room, the children gathered around the girl, touching her arm and giving her quiet looks of sympathy. One of her brothers, a boy not much younger than her, handed her a damp cloth. “Are you okay?” he whispered.

 

She nodded, pressing the cloth to her cheek. “It’s fine,” she said softly, trying to reassure them. “It could have been worse.”

 

The children shared a solemn look, knowing all too well what ‘worse’ could mean. They fell into a quiet rhythm of work, cleaning the floors and preparing breakfast, their movements synchronized like a well-practiced dance. They had learned to work together without words, their bond forged in the fire of their shared hardships.

 

In the evenings, when the sun dipped below the horizon and their mother retired to her room with her latest husband, the children would gather in the attic. It was the one place where they could speak freely, their whispers carried away by the creaking beams. They would huddle together, sharing bits of stolen bread and telling stories to comfort one another.

 

Late at night, as the household slept, the girl would sometimes creep down the staircase and look toward her mother’s dressing room, where a faint, green glint would shine through the keyhole. She knew it was the emerald necklace—a prized heirloom that her stepmother guarded jealously, allowing no one to touch it. The girl imagined that emerald holding secrets, casting shadows like her mother’s gaze.

 

One night, in a burst of desperation and defiance, the girl slipped into the room and took the emerald necklace from its drawer, her fingers trembling as she clasped it in her hand. The emerald gleamed darkly, almost as though it were watching her, but she ignored the fear and tucked it the folds of her skirt. She knew the nomads camped near the town might trade her enough coin to escape.

 

The next night, after another grueling day of pointless chores, they gathered as usual. The girl brought out the emerald necklace she had taken from her mother’s jewelry box. The children gasped when they saw it, the gemstone gleaming even in the dim light of the attic.

 

“Where did you get that?” her half-brother asked, his eyes wide.

 

The girl glanced towards the floorboards, as if expecting her mother’s footsteps at any moment. “I took it from her dressing room,” she said. “I’m going to sell it to the nomads. It might be enough to let me survive if I were to run.”

 

A murmur spread through the group. The youngest children looked fearful, but the older ones nodded with understanding. They had all talked about escaping at one point or another, whispering their dreams of freedom when the nights were darkest.

 

“But what if she finds out?” asked one of her sisters, her voice barely above a whisper.

 

“She will,” the girl replied. “But not before I’m gone. I’ll put the necklace back for the next few days while I prepare. She hardly ever looks at it anyway. And I promise I’ll come back for you all one day.”

 

The children’s eyes shone with a fierce hope, and they huddled closer together. One of the older boys placed a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll help you get away,” he said quietly. “It’s the least we can do.”

 

They spent the next few days preparing in secret. One of the boys managed to find a scrap of dried meat to distract their mother’s despicable hounds. She kept them leashed at all times but their barks were ear splitting. The mongrels also guarded the only way in or out of the house aside from the help’s entries that had been boarded up soon after the passing of the girl’s father. A stepsister took on extra chores to keep their mother occupied. The youngest ones kept watch, alerting the older children if their mother or her husband were nearby.

 

Finally, the night came. The girl hugged each of her siblings tightly, tears pricking at her eyes as she held them close. The littlest ones clung to her legs, their faces buried in her dress. She had no words to comfort them, so she simply kissed the tops of their heads and whispered promises of return.

 

Her eldest half-brother, who had been watching the door, gave her a nod. “It’s time,” he said softly.

 

The girl took one last look at her siblings, her heart breaking. They smiled at her, a mixture of sadness and hope in their eyes.

 

“Go,” they urged, shooing her towards the door. “Run as fast as you can.”

 

Everyone took their places.

 

She sprinted into the night, the emerald necklace clinking in her small coin-purse she brought along. She had made it into the dark. Soon after, she was into the thick of the trees when she heard it. The hounds started barking. They had realized their meat was a trick.

 

Panic seized her. In the darkness she stumbled blindly through the trees. It was hard to see, the darkness pressing in around her like a heavy blanket. Tree branches were stinging her face and hands as she rushed by.

 

In her stumbling, she started to hear a strange noise. Loud jingles in the distance. Then thuds of feet running close enough for her to hear. Her heart dropped.

 

The hounds were after her.

 

She did not know what to do but try to go faster when she saw it—a strange, glowing light ahead. It was coming from a tree she recognized, an old oak her father used to tell stories about. The hollow at its base was shining with an ethereal glow. She hesitated only for a moment before quickly reaching inside. Her fingers wrapped around something cold and metallic. When she pulled it out, a beam of light sliced through the darkness, illuminating her path. She could see the path she needed to run so clearly. She ran until she could no longer hear a dreaded hound.

 

The strange object had led her safely through the forest, far from her mother’s reach. She held it tightly in her hand, knowing it was a gift—perhaps from the spirit of her father, guiding her to safety.

 

She looked back one last time, catching a glimpse of the spires on the home she once loved. She knew her siblings would ache in her absence, but she also knew she had to go. I will return soon. With a deep breath, she turned towards the rising sun, stepping into a new life, one filled with hope and the promise of freedom.