Page 40 of Death of the Glass Angel (Apotheosis #1)

Talon

Ten years ago. . .

Asher handed old Gaius a copper, and the rugged wood-chopper took it as he always did. First, he scrutinized it suspiciously, then he bit it with a loud, unpleasant metallic clink. When it did not bend, old Gaius nodded approvingly, one hand adjusting his winter cap over his balding head.

“She’s genuine.” Old Gaius said playfully, tucking the coin into his bag. He leaned down, sorting through his wood pile and loading the agreed-upon number of logs into Asher’s wagon. “You sure that’ll be enough for the week, kiddo?”

“Mom said it’s all we need to get by,” Asher confirmed, helping him haul the firewood.

“Maybe it’s all you need, but it sure wouldn’t be enough for me.” Old Gaius murmured. He glanced at Asher, pretending to be discreet as he set another pair of logs on the pile. “There you go. Head on home, now.”

“Thanks, Gaius.” Asher beamed at him as he grabbed the handle and pulled the wagon behind him.

The streets were busy. The sun shone through the clouds, its intense beams piercing the overcast sky and searing Asher’s eyes. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, avoiding bumping into the bustling crowd.

White marble buildings rose around Asher like monoliths, and he pretended they were old castles in an empty field. The people he bumped into were knights riding past in a great battle.

Far from the splendor of marble edifices, home waited, a dull wooden building where cobbled roads fell away to mud. Imagination dampened, Asher pulled the cart inside.

Gloom permeated the house. Fumbling for the table, Asher found a candle and lit it. The fire illuminated his father’s face, and Asher backed away in surprise.

Heavy bags shadowed tired eyes. A tattered tunic hung from his shoulders as he lowered a bottle of watered-down ale from his mouth.

“Good,” Father muttered, gesturing to the mantle. “Put ‘em over there.”

Nodding, Asher hastily went about his business, lining the wood up in the rack beside the mantle. Mom’s cooking pot hung above the unlit fire, empty, beckoning. If Asher did not make dinner, nobody would.

Mom had taken care of him for years. It was not so much to ask to return the favor.

Once the wagon was empty, Asher rolled it back into the small front yard and locked the front door. He observed his father, but the man stared at the table, despondent, moving only to occasionally drink. Tiptoeing past him, Asher pushed open the door to his parents’ bedroom and snuck inside.

A pleasant light illuminated the quilted bed and the small rocking chair beside it.

Mother rested in the chair, gently tipping back and forth, a blanket pulled over her.

Her resemblance to Asher faded with each passing week.

Wide, bright purple eyes had dulled, her freckles lost in the pallor of her skin.

Brunette’s locks, once thick, fell limply to her shoulders.

But she managed a smile for her son.

Asher sat on the bed beside her, reaching out to take her hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” She said, her voice quiet. “How did it go?”

“Good. Old Gaius threw in a couple extra logs for free.”

“The old softy.” She mumbled. “I bet the snow’s going to be real pretty this year. Hopefully, it won’t stay warm like last winter.”

“I prefer the warmth,” Asher said. “I’m not much for the cold.”

“But snow’s so pretty, like a blanket over the world. You loved it when you were younger.”

Mom’s eyes drifted away, staring at the far wall. Staring at something else. After a minute, Asher cleared his throat. “I’m cooking. Do you have any requests?”

Her eyes slowly shifted back to his face. “Think you can make my famous potato stew?”

“Not half as well, but I can try.”

Mom chuckled. “Be careful. Point the knife away from you.”

“I know, Mom.”

“And take care with the fire. Get your father to do it.” She insisted. “Don’t burn yourself.”

“I won’t, Mom,” Asher said with slight annoyance as he left the room, quietly closing her door.

Father had not budged from his spot at the table. Approaching him tentatively, Asher waved a hand to grab his attention. “Mom said you should light the fire.”

“You do it.” Father spat, returning to his drink.

Asher flinched. Why had he bothered asking?

Only the quiet sounds of chopping and boiling water filled the house. Trying to remember Mom’s recipe, Asher poured everything into a pot and set it over the fire. He watched the flickering flames, warming his hands before the stillness drove him mad.

“I’m going out for a bit,” He announced.

“Be careful,” Father responded wearily.

A response? What a surprise. Pulling the door open, Asher wandered outside, though he wasn’t sure where he wanted to go. The air in the house was stifling, and he wanted nothing more than to escape it—to pretend everything was still normal.

Maybe an adventure would raise his spirits. Clodia was a vast place. Ancient, too. Mom had said all kinds of danger lurked in its alleys and underpasses, and Asher imagined that meant secrets did, too.

Spinning in a circle, Asher decided to roam north. North took him out of these slums and back towards their old neighborhood.

Step by step, the muddy roads turned back into cobblestones, though dirt smudged between the unkempt cracks, and the stone buildings were patched in places with rough wooden boards.

A man turned the corner ahead of him, dressed in a luxurious coat of dark blue velvet, his shoes polished black, and a feathered cap upon his neatly groomed hair. A rich man in a place like this? What was he doing here?

Asher eyed the fashion hungrily as he touched his hole-ridden coat. He tailed the man, spotting a small pouch at his belt. Surely someone with wealth wouldn’t miss mere coins?

It was wrong, but. . .

Holding his breath, Asher reached for the pouch, hand trembling. Once he stood only a foot behind the rich man, he grabbed the bag, loosening it from the man’s belt. Throat closing and breath stopping, Asher froze in the street, though he should have run.

The rich man halted and slowly turned. Pleasant sea-blue irises, pupilless, gazed down at Asher. “Almost.” He said.

“Almost what?” Asher said, tucking the pouch behind his back.

The man raised his eyebrows. “That wasn’t a half-bad lie. You’re. . .” He looked Asher up and down. “What, ten?”

“Eleven,” Asher answered quietly.

“Too young to be thieving.” The rich man effortlessly grabbed Asher’s arm and extracted his coin purse. “But you snuck up on me rather well. I’m impressed.”

“I. . .” Asher froze. Guilt racked him. He had no idea what to say or what had come over him. Mom would be so disappointed.

“Tell me, son. Are you in need of a job?”

“A job?” Asher blinked at the man. “If I’m too young to thieve, aren’t I too young for that, too?”

The rich man smiled, amused. He tugged the purse open and pulled out a gold coin. He flipped it to Asher, who managed to catch it. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Asher.”

“That’s a Thuatian name, isn’t it? You look too pale to be from down there, though.”

“I’m not. My mom’s family is.”

“Why’d she move up to this sun-ridden hellscape?”

“Um.” Asher considered the question. “I dunno.” He answered honestly.

“Well, if she looks anything like you, I bet she’s a fetching lady. Take that back to her and put a smile on her face, will you?” The man said.

“I will,” Asher promised, watching the man turn on his heel and saunter away. “Wait! I didn’t get your name.”

“Lark.”

“Lark?” Asher repeated. “That’s a bird, isn’t it?”

Lark’s smile grew. “That it is.” He said, continuing on his way.

Backing up, Asher muttered to himself. “Mr. Lark.” Repeating the name until he remembered it, he turned and jogged back home. The cookpot needed checking, and mom. . .

Well, Asher was unsure how much time he had left to spend with Mom.

Shaking his head, he cast the thought aside. Mom was going to get better. She was.