by Ross Kitson
Chapter 3The Carnival
Leafstide 1920
“Do you think there’s something wrong with her?”
It was Abila’s voice, saturated with concern. Emelia knew that should mean something to her but she couldn’t seem to generate the energy to be bothered.
Her body was weighed down by misery. Each time she tried to rise from her bed it dragged her back like an undertow in a sea of gloom. There were no tears left in her, she felt wrung out and barren. A void was within her hollow chest, a space where a young bright girl used to be.
“I don’t think what Sandila’s got is catching,” Annre said.
“Come on, Emelia, before Mother gets here.”
Mother? She is no mother to me, thought Emelia. Who would be a mother to such a weak worthless vassal as I? She needed to get up but her muscles refused. By Torik, she was tired, weary to the marrow. She was fatigued yet couldn’t sleep.
“Get up now, girl,” Mother Gresham said.
Emelia stared at the stone of the wall. I feel like the dead rock of this prison.
A bucket of ice cold water soaked Emelia. She sprang from the bed with a scream. Gresham grabbed her hair and dragged her across the floor.
“Melancholia is for the rich, Emelia. Remember that. Now get to your chores or I’ll cane you into a better frame of mind.”
Emelia stumbled towards the warmth of the kitchen, stifling a sob.
