Page 60 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)
The first days on the river passed in a grim silence, broken only by the splash of oars and the occasional bark from Jules as he snapped orders.
Mary and I huddled near the bow, trying to stay out of the way, the spray from the water soaking through our threadbare cloaks.
Eleanor sat near the stern, her daughter curled beside her, quietly feeding the child scraps of bread and slivers of dried fruit from her dwindling pouch.
“She’s kind to her daughter,” I murmured to Mary, watching the widow tuck a stray curl behind the girl’s ear.
Mary gave a soft snort. “Only when it suits her.”
Even so, I found my gaze returning to them again and again. The widow’s biting tongue and harder eyes seemed to soften when she held her child close, wrapping her shawl tight against the wind. It was a side of her I hadn’t expected—one I wasn’t sure how to feel about.
As Jules guided us through a particularly treacherous stretch one afternoon, the boat lurched hard, nearly throwing us into the river.
Mary and I hit the deck with a thud while the widow’s daughter shrieked, clutching at her mother’s skirts.
Eleanor yanked her close, shielding her as the boat rocked violently.
“Hold tight!” Jules barked, his voice rising above the chaos. His oar dug into the water, muscles straining as he fought the current. A half-submerged log loomed ahead, slick with moss and threatening to splinter us apart. With a final, heaving pull, he steered us clear.
We steadied. Barely.
Breathless, I gripped the edge of the boat, my knuckles white. My heart thundered in my chest. “Is it always like this?”
Jules shot me a glance, and for the first time, his lips curved into a grin—crooked, knowing. “This?” he said, eyes gleaming. “This is nothing. Wait till the river gets angry.”
Evenings were calmer, though the tension never fully dissipated.
We camped along the riverbank beneath a canopy of blackened trees, the stars hidden by clouds that rarely seemed to part.
Jules would build a fire while Eleanor prepared our meager food.
One night, she handed me a piece of salted pork and a chunk of hardtack so tough it could’ve been stone.
“Make yourself useful,” she said, her voice flat, nodding toward the fire.
My pride bristled, but I took the food without complaint.
Mary joined me, and together, we knelt by the flames, warming the pork until it sizzled, the fat spitting in sudden bursts that caught in the firelight like embers.
The greasy and acrid smell made my stomach churn—but it was food. And that was enough.
As we ate, Jules spoke—his words like rough-cut timber, shaping a vision of the world ahead.
He told us of the northern wilderness, endless forests swallowing the horizon, winters so cold your breath froze in the air, and the tribes that moved silently through the trees, masters of the land in a way no outsider could ever be.
“It’s no place for women,” he said, his gaze fixing on me like a weight.
I sat straighter, forcing the weariness from my voice. “Perhaps not. But we’ll make do.”
His low chuckle rumbled in the silence, harsh and unamused. “We’ll see.”
Weeks passed. The river became both ally and enemy—carrying us forward yet threatening to take us under at every bend.
Rain fell often, soaking us to the bone, while the sun, when it appeared, burned our skin raw.
The widow’s child grew quieter, her doll now nothing more than a ragged scrap, its stuffing leaking, its eyes faded.
She clung to it as if it could ward off the ghosts that clung to all of us.
Mary and I fell into a rhythm—the rhythm of survival. The ache of constant hunger, the chill that never quite left our bones, the weight of the journey pressing heavier each day—we endured.
Strangers bound by circumstance, we moved forward—not as family or friends, but as survivors.
Hope was fragile—fraying with every mile—but we clung to it all the same. We wished that when the river finally released us, we’d find something more than another kind of hardship waiting at the end.
Yet as the waters stretched on—endless, and cold—I couldn’t help but wonder if we’d merely traded one prison for another.
The river lapped gently at the sides of the flatboat, its rhythm both a comfort and a reminder of how far I’d drifted from the life I once knew.
Each soft splash against the wood was a beat in the slow march away from the ruins of my past—and toward an unknown future, I dared not dream of.
I sat at the boat’s edge, the rough-hewn plank pressing against my legs, hands folded over the swell of my belly.
A tangible weight. A silent promise. A tether to the memories I longed to leave behind… and yet couldn’t.
Widow York sat beside her daughter, murmuring to her in a low tone that carried across the quiet water.
Jules, his watchful eyes ever scanning the horizon, steered us northward—toward Minnesota and the uncertain life waiting for us there.
We were a ragged band of survivors, bound by necessity, not trust.
Amid their gruff exchanges and the creak of rope and timber, my thoughts never strayed far from two figures—my father—who, despite his hatred, had shielded me from Salvatore’s wrath—and Amir, whose absence gnawed at me like a phantom pain. A void no number of miles could fill.
“Elizabeth, could you pass me that sack of potatoes?” Mary’s voice called from the riverbank, where she crouched near a modest fire, coaxing a meal from our dwindling supplies.
“Of course,” I replied, mustering a faint smile as I reached for the sack. The simple task, once effortless, now strained muscles already taxed by fatigue. I felt every movement in my back, legs, and deep within—the weight of new life growing heavier by the day.
We sat together, slicing and dicing, the rhythmic thud of our knives mingling with the hiss of the river.
The fire crackled, casting flickering light across Mary’s face, illuminating lines of worry and determination etched deep by hardship.
Beside us, Jules’ voice rumbled in low conversation with Widow York, their silhouettes outlined against the encroaching dusk—worn, weathered figures in a land that asked everything and gave nothing freely.
Every evening felt the same—survival was woven into each breath, each bite, each silence. But in that shared labor, in the scent of woodsmoke and the rhythmic motion of blade through the potato, there was a sliver of something else.
Not comfort. Not yet. But perhaps… the beginning of it.
“Your belly is too big for someone who’s only four months along,” Mary observed, her voice soft with wonder, a fragile lightness amid the wilderness that pressed in around us. “It’s marvelous.”
I placed a hand over the curve of my abdomen, feeling the stirrings of life within—swift, undeniable, growing stronger by the day. “It’s so huge,” I murmured, half in awe, half in disbelief.
“Maybe it’s a big baby,” Mary mused, dropping diced potatoes into the bubbling pot. “Or… perhaps twins.”
“Twins?” My voice caught, a thread of unease winding around the word. “No, I don’t have twins in my family.”
Mary shrugged, smiling as if to defy the weight of the world. “You never know with these things. Life surprises us.”
Life. Surprises. Some beautiful. Others cruel.
I watched the sun dip low, casting molten gold across the restless river and thought of Amir—stoic, untouchable Amir. His absence was a weight I carried with every step, every breath. He was gone, yet he lingered in every memory, every hope I dared to cradle.
But now, there was nothing to do but press forward—one stroke, one breath at a time—and pray that when dawn broke, it would bring more than silence, more than guilt. Maybe peace. Or maybe it was just another day to survive.
The fire had dwindled to embers when the night erupted into chaos.
It began with a single, piercing cry—a guttural sound that shattered the stillness—a warning, a promise of blood.
I scrambled to my feet, my heart slamming against my ribs, and my breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a scream. Too many shadows spilled across the riverbank too fast. Dark figures materialized from the trees, their movements swift and merciless.
The air split with a terrifying sound—a tomahawk whistling past us, embedding itself with a sickening thud into the tree behind Mary.
We were under attack.