The Warrior King's Mate

Chapter 3

Nova P.O.V

I had arrived at a little fishing village half a day’s drive along the coast from Silver Shore. The bored man at the bus station had told me no bus went straight to River Moon, and that I had to get a ferry from this little village. When I arrived, the ferry had been and gone, and so I was forced to spend the night. In normal circumstances, I’d be petrified at missing my connection, especially knowing that the Luna of River Moon was supposedly expecting me early in the morning, which now I would definitely be late for. She was going to be furious with me and I was sure to be punished for my tardiness.

Instead, my mind was a constant ebb and flow of panic and confusion about how I had left the packhouse. I sat on a plastic bench outside of the ferry terminal for what felt like days, but in reality, it must have only been a few hours; I had to think of a plan. This was a human village, and small. I had caught the scent of wolves at the ferry terminal but it was now closed with no one in sight. I was so sick with worry, with sadness and tired from whatever it was that had happened this morning that I couldn’t move.

As I watched fishermen bringing their little boats on to the quay, yelling orders and hauling ropes, sweating in the late afternoon sun and it dawned on me – I hadn’t eaten a thing all day. I pulled at the edges of the envelope and peeked once more at the money inside. There was a lot – having never had any money in my life before, I had no idea what to do with it. The bus ticket here hadn’t cost much and there was more than enough for a hundred ferry rides left in the envelope. Surely then, the cruel Beta of Silver Shore had put enough money in here to feed me? Too afraid to read the letter inside, I was also too afraid to spend the money – what if this was a test? How bad would the beating be if I failed, spent too much money when I arrived at Moon River? As the fisherman pulled the heavy tarpaulin over their boats and went their separate ways, the air seemed to chill, and the sky darkened all at once. I couldn’t stay out here all night.

Getting to my feet felt like a chore after sitting so still for so long, tense and miserable. Without even going ten feet from the bench, my stomach rumbled angrily. Luckily, nearby there was a fish and chip shop like at home. I’d never had fish and chips, but heard visiting wolves excitedly gush about them whenever they came so close to the coast. Watching an older couple leaving the shop, I was pleasantly surprised to see the cute paper bag they came wrapped in and the smell swam around my heart, my mouth watering as they passed me standing awkwardly in the middle of the street. My feet moved of their own accord, hunger driving away any fear of violent punishments for spending money. Pushing open the door, a small bell tinkled above my head, making me jump. The plump woman behind the counter smiled at me warmly and asked, “what’ll it be, love?”

“I er…” I answered awkwardly. I didn’t know what to order and felt my face blush angrily. The embarrassment and hunger swirled in my gut, and I felt suddenly nauseous. “I don’t…” I managed to say before my legs shuddered weirdly and I fell sideways in to the green, tiled walls.

“Oh my – hang on!” the lady behind the counter grabbed a bottle of water from a tall, red fridge beside the till, lifting the end of the counter to let herself out, opening the bottle as she came tumbling towards me. “Sit!” she ordered, firmly but kindly, and pushed my shoulder down, guiding me to a set of curved, polish wooden benches along the wall. “You are about the size of a wee chippy yourself! When was the last time you ate, love?” She asked me, eyebrows scrunched in concern. She was worried about me. To my absolute horror, I felt the sides of my eyes prick sharply as tears threatened to come forward.

“Oh, love….” She said, sitting down beside me and taking my hand, before jumping and sandwiching my fingers between her two pudgy palms. “Your wee bones are frozen! Here, drink this, sit here and I’ll get you a supper!” she said, handing me the water and giving my hand a final rub. Bouncing up from her seat and back around the counter, she grabbed some newspapers and started moving around, banging and sizzling and humming to herself. I took a sip of the water, the cold liquid moving down my throat making the nausea in my stomach swish unpleasantly. Replacing the lid of the bottle, I looked at the lady and asked, “a supper?”

“That’s what my dad always called it! Back where he was from, a fish and chip serving was called a supper! Do you want some salt and vinegar?” she asked. I didn’t know so, trying not to look embarrassed, I nodded my head. I had no idea if I liked salt or vinegar – or fish for that matter. I only ever had the scraps the rest of the pack threw away to eat at home and it was never enough. I was always hungry, especially after a run. If I could, I would sneak a piece of bacon as they cooked during breakfast, but days spent cleaning and running up and down the five floors of the packhouse meant that I couldn’t always rely on being in the kitchen when food was being prepared. I looked down at my hands. They were bony.

“Here we are!” said the lady, and she handed me a neatly wrapped paper parcel. My mouth watered so quickly at the smell that I had to clamp my lips shut to save myself from drooling. The heat from the paper passed through into my hands and I looked at the lady and gave her a toothy grin.

“Thank you,” I said, tears prickling at my eyes again. I unwrapped the paper and saw a golden, fried piece of fish sitting on top of fluffy, thick potato fries. Inside the paper, a small wooden fork was wrapped alongside the food, and shakily I picked it up, pressing it into the crispy outer coating of the fish. It crackled musically as the fork broke through the batter, revealing the delicate, white flakes of fish underneath, steam curling up from the flesh in delectable curls. I brought the food to my lips and my mouth exploded with the tangy, vinegary deliciousness. I gave in to my ravenous stomach and stuffed my face greedily until only a few, crunchy little chips remained.

“Good?” giggled the fish lady, watching me with twinkly eyes. I felt like my stomach had stretched to three times the size, a lazy warmth stretching itself along my limbs and into my head. I was suddenly exhausted, all fear and confusion, all memories of dust and sharp electricity forgotten.

“Good,” I nodded back at her.

“What’s your name, love?” She asked me, reaching down to collect my paper for me. I hesitated, unsure whether it was safe to tell my name to a stranger – telling people my name could get you a night locked out in the cold at home. I never understood why. This lady was so unlike anyone from Silver Shore though, and from the smell of her she was definitely human. I was sure she wouldn’t hurt me.

“N-Nova,” I stammer quietly.

“Nova,” she repeated thoughtfully, more to herself than to me. “What an unusual name. I’m Flora,” she smiles at me. “Nova, do you know I’ve seen you sit at that bench outside the ferry terminal all day, and you look like you haven’t eaten for days. Are you on your own, love?” She isn’t being nosy, I realise. She’s speaking to me like my kindergarten teacher used to. Softly, like we’re talking in code, asking questions similar enough to the ones she wants the answers to, but is too careful to come outright and ask directly. Ms Thomas used to do this whenever she saw the other pups hurt me, or when she saw chunks of my hair missing, or whenever she bandaged my broken fingers. Sitting on the bench with Flora inside the salty fish and chip shop, I suddenly felt very, very small.

“I – I missed the ferry. My Grandma, she – well she’s sick and I missed my ferry. I’m going to be late.”

I looked down at my hands instead of at Flora’s face. She must think I’m incredibly stupid, missing the last ferry and not knowing what to ask for in a fish and chip shop – the clue is in the name for goddess’ sake! Flora ‘humphs’ as if coming to a private decision.

“Well,” she announced, “you can’t wait all night for a ferry that doesn’t leave until 5am. You can help me finish the dinner shift here and then you can come home with me. I only live upstairs. Mind you, it’s just a couch you’ll have to sleep on. Okay with you, Nova?”

I looked at her in absolute shock. Something warm inside my chest blossomed and I couldn’t help myself. I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt from lack of practice. I nodded so enthusiastically at her that she laughed. “Well, that’s that settled! Let’s get you an apron and show you how to fry some fish!”

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Flora’s apartment was small, cramped, but very well kept. A large bay window overlooked the Quay and the village main street – I could see what she had meant earlier about watching me all day, as the ferry terminal was clearly in view and the bench I had clung to for dear life was directly opposite the entry stairwell to her home. A squashy, floral patterned chesterfield sofa dominated the small lounge, which somehow also managed to house a low wooden coffee table, a glass doored bureau filled with tiny porcelain pots, an impressive bookcase filled top to bottom with dark, leatherbound books, a small round dining table with two spindly looking dining chairs, and a decent sized television that hung on the wall above a dark bricked fireplace. The room fed off into a small galley-style kitchenette, a narrow (and pastel pink) bathroom and Flora’s bedroom. The place smelled of herbs and citrus, owing in no small part to the large baskets of fresh herbs growing on each windowsill and the large bowls of various fruits placed on the coffee and dining tables. Taking a deep breath in, Flora exhaled “now isn’t it nice to get the smell of that fryer out of your nose?”

She was right. The smell that had drawn me into her shop like a moth to a flame slowly transformed into a sickly one by the time we had served the seemingly never-ending line of customers, emptied, sterilised and reset the vats, swept the floors and finally switched the sign on the door from ‘come on in’ to ‘we’ll see you soon’. Unlike at the packhouse though, Flora often stopped for a snack and encouraged me to do the same. Beside the till was a small stand of chocolate bars and bags of nuts. Flora’s eyes were blown wider than saucepans when I told her I’d never tasted chocolate before, and she insisted I try a handful to find a favourite. At first, this was an excellent game, the chocolate coating my mouth and making my tongue tingle as smooth chocolate melted, the flavour combinations both surprising and moreish – but by bar three I had had enough and couldn’t stand to take so much as another bite. Flora did not suffer the same fate, and her plump face and round belly made much more sense as she happily finished off her seventh bar of the night while locking the stained-glass front door of her shop.

She busied herself with a kettle, intent on making me tea, and chattered away happily while collecting a spare blanket, pillow and plain white sheet from various small cupboards around her home. She absentmindedly placed the sheet on the sofa, the smell of fresh cotton reaching me as I watched her tuck it into the corners with expert fingers, as if the whole sofa were a little paper parcel of fish and chips. Through the sheet, the flower pattern was still visible.

“So,” she was telling me, “I wasn’t much older than you when I left home myself! After daddy died, I decided I needed to see this giant world of ours before I got old and fat like he did. And I did. I climbed mountains in Peru, swam in rivers in France, learned to surf in Sydney. Italy was my favourite, you know; I’d thought I’d stay there forever. A little old lady in my building there, took me in like a Nona would, made me tea and let me sleep in her spare bed…” Flora paused, smiling at me sweetly as if explaining why I was there. She wanted to return the favour, I think. “She was a great chef, once – she taught me how to make the best pasta I had ever tasted – but the pastry was my favourite! Every morning I would have a cappuccino and ciambella on the warm balcony of our apartment and read a book, basking in the sun….” she reminisced softly, her eyes closing as if she could feel a soft Mediterranean sun on her face.

“H-how did you find your way here?” I liked Flora very much. She was as easy to talk to as Anna, and despite the obvious age difference between us, she made me feel like she was talking to a confidante, a friend. She hadn’t prised me about my weight, my circumstances and accepted that I was worried about my grandmother as the night wore on. She kept sneaking me worried, searching glances throughout the night, thinking I didn’t notice. I began to panic thinking she was changing her mind about letting me stay when I caught sight of myself in the reflective steel fry-stop and saw how dark and hollow my eyes had become, the extreme definition of my cheekbones where my cheeks caved in and, worse of all, a poppy red bruise on my cheek from my mother’s strike. Embarrassed, I avoided direct answers to her questions for a while and had busied myself frying while she served.

“Oh, that old chestnut,” she laughed softly. “A boy. Isn’t it always for a boy?” she shrugged and then hesitated, as if deciding something. She nodded weakly and stood from her seat at the end of the sofa, crossing to the bureau and lifting a photograph in a silver frame. She looked sadly at the picture in her hands before pressing it to her chest and looking at me, a nervousness in her eyes. “He promised me the world, not just the small slice of it in Italy. I’d met him here, you see – well, the other side of the country, but still - I returned home every few months to work, travelling isn’t cheap and, well, I have my father’s grave here. I…

‘Well, I met him on a return trip home, and it was, well, it was like the sky opened up and gave me my very own angel! He was handsome, rich and powerful, so gentle, so kind. He wanted us to stay secret, not quite the romance I had pictured. I thought he was married but instead-” She stopped dead and eyed me wearily. Reddening along her neck and cheeks, she looked sad. “Well, he was something else alright,” she mumbled to herself.

“He left me with two things, Nova, a deep hatred for him and a pregnant belly. I – I needed to be away from him, he was – well, he was wild at times. Like an animal. The sweet man I fell in love with at the airport became this twisted, angry man hellbent on power the second he realised I was pregnant. One night, I told him I wanted to leave – to go back to Italy and he…well, let’s just say I know how you got your bruise on your cheek, love.” She smiled at me sympathetically and I felt an overwhelming urge to hold her hand. I’d spent my life avoiding people, avoiding eye contact in case I made them angry with me, crying myself to sleep and praying to the Mood Goddess to save me, or kill me. It never occurred to me that other people had been made to feel the same pain as I had.

“Who were they, the ones who did that?” Flora gestured for the first time to my cheek.

Immediately I looked away, my body full of terror, my chest rising and falling rapidly and worse, I felt my body begin to tingle with that same static energy I’d felt in the basement.

I panicked completely – tore myself from the couch, ran blindly to the door, then the window, before oscillating the room weirdly.

My feet refused to work properly, tripping me up as I dashed nonsensically about. I felt a hand on my shoulder and threw myself to the ground, covering my head and face as I had learned to do so many times before – but the hits never came.

I don’t know how long I stayed there on the floor after the panic attack, but after a long time, the static in my body fizzled away, replaced by an overwhelming numbness. It was like that, sometimes. A black hole in your day, no memory of time passing or what had happened to me.

I lay still, as if cemented in place, my eyes tight shut and my breathing normalising. Groggily, I relied on my hearing and sense of smell to assess the situation; Flora lay on the fluffy carpet beside me, singing softly in a language I didn’t recognise.

The blanket she had laid out for me had been draped over my curled-up body, her hand absentmindedly stroking the long, untidy strands of my hair. Every now and then, she gulped heavily and then returned to her singing, her voice growing steadily thicker as she held back a sob. The song made me feel calm, settling me in a way nothing ever had before, and I wondered if this is what it meant to be mothered. I felt so tired… I could just fall asleep here on the floor. It was already… softer, warmer and safer than any night’s sleep I’d ever had…and the singing was so…. soothing….

“Oh Nova,” Flora whispered beside me, obviously crying now. “What did Grace do to you?”

My heart turned cold in an instant. The soft heaviness in my body turned to ice.

I wasn’t safe here at all.