SHACKLES

It was a cold winter night in Berkshire. Snow clung to the window pane, and only the flicker of candles lit the narrow corridors with trembling shadows. The fire had long since died. Zoe stepped out of her chamber,seeking warmth, she peered into the dark in search of Mama, who had promised to sing her a lullaby. A strange sound broke the hush, a scream, raw and unfamiliar. Though fear gripped her, she moved forward, eager to find where the sound came from. She pressed herself against the cold stone wall and peered into the dim beyond. Mama was there, writhing, drenched in sweat, her nightgown clinging to her as though it too was in pain. Beside her stood a woman dressed in a plain frock, saying things Zoe could not understand. Mama groaned, as if her body wished to purge something cursed. Then Papa arrived. His boots struck the wooden floor like thunder, and with his presence, the screaming ceased. Moments later, a thin, fractured cry pierced the air, a newborn’s wail, quiet yet eternal. Papa stepped forward, his voice clipped and strained. “What is the child’s s*x?” The midwife replied softly, “A girl.” The tension was thick and unnatural. Zoe, unable to restrain herself, crept closer and slipped into the doorway. She watched him turn to Mama, his voice low but seething: “I wanted no girl. Did you not pray to your God for a son?” Mama’s gaze held his, weary and broken. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “But I am no God.” He said nothing more. The door slammed behind him like a verdict, and Mama’s sobs filled the room. Over and over, she whispered, “Do not mock me, Lord… do not mock me…” until her voice became a prayer, or perhaps a curse. She called for the maid to return Zoe to her bed, but sleep did not come. All night, the images haunted her, Mama’s trembling hands, the sweat upon her brow, the echo of shame that clung to the walls and something else… something unspeakable that slithered beneath the memory, unnamed but unforgettable.