Page 3 of Ringmaster (The Kingdom of Shadow & Bone #1)

Mercy

Warm rays of sunlight creep across my skin, dancing lightly over my cheeks, gently whispering for me to wake. I yawn and stretch, thankful for another beautiful day to enjoy. Determined to make the most out of my chores, I toss back the covers and swing my legs over the edge of the bed.

Before I emerge, I strain my ears for footsteps or yelling.

The quiet presses in, but I don’t let myself relax.

I know better than to trust the silence.

I know better than to let my guard down.

My father has never laid a hand on me, but that doesn’t stop him from yelling, nor does it keep me from fearing him.

Several more minutes pass without so much as a whisper or a creaking floorboard.

Every last bone in my body begs me not to fall for it, not to be lured into the false security of the silence that’s settled over the house.

But I refuse to let fear dictate how I start my day.

Leaping out of bed, I dress quickly, tiptoeing across the wooden planks, silently begging them to keep my secrets. With a dramatic spin and curtsy, I take a deep breath and balance on an imaginary tightrope from my bed to the door.

The hallway is empty. I slink cautiously to the kitchen and find my mother there, sitting at the small table, sipping a cup of tea.

A list of chores for each of us rests beside her.

She focuses on hand-stitching a delicate swatch of lace onto a dress for one of her clients.

Embarrassed by the yellow and green bruises, she turns away to hide them.

“Mama, let me clean you up,” I whisper, hurrying to pull the first-aid kit from the drawer and a cloth to dab on the medicine.

I fill a sachet with fresh lavender sprigs and other herbs on the sunlit windowsill, tie it with twine, and drizzle ointment on the cloth before pressing it gently to her cheekbone. “Is he gone?” I ask.

She nods.

“Go rest,” I whisper out of habit.

“You know I can’t, my love,” is all she can muster.

“Please, Mama. Let me do all the chores today.” I snatch both lists as she closes her eyes to consider.

“Please,” I coax, squeezing her shoulder as I lean over to kiss her temple.

“If you insist. But you’ll need to do them all, or wake me if you can’t finish them on your own.” Her instructions are clear, but I catch the hesitation in her tone.

“I can do them all, Mama. Trust me.”

“I do trust you, Mercy. You still need to wake me after lunch. Promise me, so I can send you to the market for fresh soup while I bake the bread and finish my sewing.”

“I promise, Mama.”

“Good. Tomorrow, you can deliver the dress for me to Mrs. Davenport and collect the remaining payment,” my mother says, adding a chore to tomorrow’s list.

I nod in silent acknowledgment before helping my mother back to bed, tucking her in, and kissing her forehead gently.

Sometimes it feels like I’m the parent, but it’s not her fault.

She tries so hard to be strong for me. We take care of each other, and I always will.

The fierce, protective love I have for my mother is unfathomable.

My father doesn’t care about her one bit, and she deserves to be loved by someone in this cruel, lonely world.

Often I find myself wishing he would just leave; we’d be better off without him.

I don’t have time to waste my daydreams dwelling on a man I’ve grown to hate.

Instead, I bustle about my chores, scrubbing and sweeping, dusting and tidying, until the house sparkles.

Outside, I tend the garden and pull the dry clothes from the line.

After I finish hanging the new batch of freshly washed ones, I make my way inside, delighted to have enough time to prepare the bread for my mother.

But when I glance at the old clock, I realize I’ve completely lost track of time.

I need to wake my mother so I can venture out for the fish.

A smile spreads slowly across my face. If only the market were near the circus.

Leaning against the paper-thin walls, I close my eyes and picture Azrael.

In my memories, I replay yesterday, remembering the way his fingers sent electricity coursing up my arm from his touch.

He’s holding my heart captive, ensnared in his confusing web.

I want to hate him for pushing me away, for never looking at me the way I look at him.

We’ve only ever been friends, nothing more, despite the thousands of times I told him I planned to marry him when I turned thirteen.

Back then, we’d lie in the tall grass by the old abandoned boxcar. We turned it into our secret clubhouse—a world of our own. That was a few years before he started pulling away, before he grew too old for my games and nonsense.

He laughs, obviously caught off guard and uncomfortable. “Why would you waste your time on someone like me? There’s nothing for you with me. You need to stop being childish. You need to forget about me, Mercy.”

And he walked away.

A few years later, we sat behind the clubhouse, older but still clinging to the illusion that nothing had changed between us.

The sky was painted in streaks of dusty pink.

The remains of a picnic I begged him to stay for spread between us.

I told him how my father planned to marry me off once I was old enough, hoping he would say something to stop it.

I searched his face for a promise, a plan, anything that might save me.

Instead, he cupped my cheek, kissed the tip of my nose, and whispered, “We can’t do this anymore, Mercy. You need to forget about me. I’m not good enough for you. We would never work together.”

He didn’t even hesitate or look back once, mumbling more to himself than to me, “You deserve someone better.”

All I could do was watch as he trudged away. I never understood his reaction that day, but looking back now, it all makes sense. I was so caught up in my childish adventures I never noticed the way he was growing up and changing. How different we’d become.

The teardrops well in my eyes, threatening to spill, but I swipe them away before they can fall.

It’s been so long since we’ve spoken to one another.

These days, it’s always fleeting moments and brief conversations in passing that leave me with more questions than answers.

My heart aches for him. Even if we couldn’t be anything more than friends, I miss him, and I need him.

We could be happy together if only he shared the same feelings toward me.

But if I’m not what he wants… then why does he always wait for me with a golden flower?

My mind dares to whisper a far-fetched fantasy—maybe he lied.

I shake my head at the nonsensical thought. It’s utterly ridiculous. Still, part of me believes he’ll always be there—like a guardian angel, like he already knows our future.

Not quite ready to wake my poor sleeping mother, I sneak into my bedroom and scoop up the marigold, cradling it carefully to my heart before lifting it to my nose.

I breathe in the sweet scent, eyes drifting closed as the memory of last night replays in my mind.

It feels so real, like the ghost of his fingers still lingers on my skin.

A shiver runs through me, and I’m suddenly back in my room, staring into the looking glass, holding the flower, a wistful, far-off look plastered on my face.

I smile at my reflection, then weave and braid the flower into my hair.

When I finish, the marigold is nestled beautifully in my strawberry-blonde hair.

I wonder if my mother will be suspicious—or if she’ll even notice at all.

I look presentable for a trip to the fish market, and honestly, that’s all that matters.

My mother might suspect, but she’s never questioned where the flowers come from or who I spent my time with.

Thank the Divine she keeps my secrets, because if my father ever found out, it wouldn’t just be trouble for Azrael… it would destroy any chance I have to escape my future. I would never be allowed outside the house unescorted again, not until he’s married me off and sold my virginity.

I breathe an angry sigh. It’s only a matter of time before he makes a deal. As soon as someone offers him the right number, I’ll be nothing more than a payoff.

Biting back a sob, I pat a few loose hairs into place, then turn to walk across the hall. It’s time to wake my mother.

In her room, I’m surprised to find the bed empty and neatly made.

“Mama,” I call out, my voice full of panic, aching with distress.

“I’m here. I’m alright, Mercy,” she calls from the kitchen. “I woke while you were braiding your hair and did not want to disturb you. I came out here to find the bread already made and only the sewing left to do.”

I rush to the kitchen to wrap my mother in a hug, pecking her lightly on her cheek.

“I love you, Mama,” I gush, checking her over and only relaxing when I see the swelling has eased.

“I love you more. Thank you for a restful day. Hurry now, here’s some money for the market. Run along and fetch the fish,” She instructs.

I am surprised my mother is even entertaining the idea of me venturing off to the market alone— especially with the recent string of disappearances.

But I have no intention of reminding her about the missing townsfolk, so I try not to smile as I slip the money into my sock.

I’m looking forward to the trip. I’ll take any opportunity I can to get out of the house.

“Yes, Mama,” I reply, realizing she’s waiting for my answer.

“And Mercy, do not dawdle. Stick to the main route. I will not have my only daughter stolen away from me,” she warns, narrowing her eyes to show me she means it.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes at the thought of anyone kidnapping a girl my age. Instead, I heed her warning, giving her one last hug goodbye.

“I’ll be extra careful. You know I could never leave you alone in this world.”

I step outside, clutching the marigold like a secret, and head toward the market—and whatever waits for me there.

At the market, the sting of salty air tickles my nose like a friendly hello.

Everything is loud and busy. The auction is going on at the shore, where stand owners are lined up bidding on the crates full of fresh fish and other sea creatures.

The hustle and bustle of endless bodies and chatter fills the rows as townspeople search for fresh groceries.

The delicious smell of bread and sugared nuts wafts through the air, mixing with the salt to create a comforting scent.

I love the market. It’s filled with throngs of interesting people, overflowing with both new and familiar faces.

But I’m only searching for one in the sea of people flooding the market and bringing it to life.

Once I spot my cousin Miriam at my uncle’s booth, I quicken my pace, twisting and turning through the crowds of shoppers with my basket in tow. It doesn’t take long to reach her.

“Hello there, beautiful,” Miriam remarks, smiling at me beneath the rim of her busy sun hat, decorated with exotic flowers from an earlier delivery.

“Hello, Miriam, how are you today?” I ask, making small talk as she wraps up a purchase for another customer.

“I’m lovely, thank you for asking. What can I do for you today?” She slides the money into a guarded steel box chained to the collar of a majestic jaguar, its tail flicking lazily as it watches anyone who dares glance at the box.

I hand her the list my mother sent, waiting for her to read it over and tuck it in her shirt pocket.

“The flowers on your hat are stunning. Are they another gift?” I shimmy my shoulders at her.

“Now, Mercy,” she scolds, “you know better than to question a lady about her admirer.”

“So he is here,” I deduce with a grin. “When are you going to tell me who it is? Did he say if he’s ready yet?” I pry, gossiping away—oblivious to the market, when I should be alert and observant.

“Shhh,” Miriam giggles, holding a finger to her lips and nodding at her younger sister fulfilling another order on the other side of their large booth.

I roll my eyes, then press my lips together, pretending to lock them and throw away the key.

We both burst out laughing, which earns us a scowl from her sister.

It only makes us laugh harder. We continue our friendly conversation as she fills my basket, tucking in extras when she thinks I’m not watching.

My uncle tries to help as much as he can without interfering, slipping my mother extra food.

It’s one way he helps take care of us, knowing there’s nothing he can do about my father.

While Miriam turns away to collect a few apples and several vines full of grapes, I scan the market for the flower salesman, pushing his cart full of freshly trimmed flowers from the trading posts across the Opaline Sea.

One minute I’m looking around and the next—a prickling tingle brushes across the back of my neck, making every hair on my body stand up.

I’m immediately aware that someone, somewhere, is watching me.

The heat of their stare ripples over me, sending a pulsing panic cold through my veins.

Turning slowly, I catalog everything going on around me as far as my eyes can see, then move to the next zone until—

Miriam taps me on my shoulder, and I jump, yelping.

“Is everything okay, Mercy? I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m sorry.” She wrings her hands as she apologizes.

“It’s okay. I just spooked myself. It felt like someone was watching me, but it’s fine,” I brush it off.

“Do you want my brother to walk you home? You know my father won’t mind,” Miriam offers.

I glance at my sixteen-year-old cousin. He’s all sun-kissed skin and sturdy muscle from long days at the docks—still more boy than man, but solid enough to make trouble think twice.

But I know he’s needed here. Besides, I no longer feel the lingering presence of watchful eyes on me.

As long as I stick to the main road like my mother advised, I’ll be just fine.

“No,” I stammer. There’s still plenty of daylight out and so many people traveling to and from the market. “I’ll be alright, as long as I hurry.”

“I’ll expect one of you in a few days,” she replies, patting the now full basket.

When I lift it and find it much heavier than it should be, my stomach grumbles its thanks as I hug my cousin goodbye.