by Cassey Yun
“Oi, back off, will ya?” I snap, clutching the loaf tighter beneath my cloak. One arm presses it close to my ribs while the other lifts, ready to strike.
A week in the labor house for this scrap, I’m not losing it now. My heart hammers as the stranger stumbles into me, his surprise flickering only for a moment before a crooked smirk replaces it. He pushes me deeper into the narrow hiding space.
I grunt, pulling my cloak tighter. There’s no room to argue, either squeeze in or get shoved out into the street. The guards’ boots pass by, heavy and searching.
“Thieving, eh?” he mutters, shifting closer, forcing us both lower. My grip tightens around the bread hidden beneath my cloak, its shape awkward against my stomach. His shoulder presses harder into mine. The scent of damp wool and stale market air thickens between us, trapped in this miserable corner behind a heap of refuse, where no sane person would willingly look.
The air carries the sharp bite of river salt. A rat scurries past, its copper tag clinking softly—the cathedral’s mark, proof it’s protected. A miracle, they’d say. Down here, it’s just another thing surviving.
Above us, faded prayer-scrolls cling to the wall, symbols of luck and salvation for eyes that no longer look this far down.
“No,” I reply coolly. “With child.”
His brows lift, just for a second. Then that smirk returns.
“Yer not,” he says, too certain. “I know you. You sing at The Swan.” He leans in, voice dropping. “Little tavern off Market Row. Doesn’t pay you enough for bread, I see.”
I hiss. “And how, exactly, do you know that?”
He flicks my hood back. My short dark curls fall loose, too soft to pass fully as a man. His eyes scan me, sharp and knowing.
“Bella,” he says.
“That’s not my name. How do you know me?”
“A woman your size is hard to miss.”
I swing at him, but he’s faster.
Flame sparks between us.
For a heartbeat, his honey-colored eyes burn gold. A fire mage.
My body reacts before my mind, panic surges. I brace for pain, for heat, for death. His hand clamps over my mouth; the other grips my head. I bite down hard instead, tasting blood.
“Gods!” he hisses, but doesn’t pull away. “I won’t hurt ya. If I wanted to, you’d already be ash.” A pause. Then quietly: “Farley.”
My real name.
I freeze.
He pulls his hand back, wrapping it with a scrap of cloth, muttering under his breath. “Right hellcat, you are.”
“My kind?” I spit. “They’re hunting you, not thieves. Unguilded.” The word lands sharp. Dangerous.
He grins. “Duarte. At your service.” Mocking, of course.
Before I can react, he tears the loaf in half beneath my cloak.
“Run,” he says suddenly.
“What?”
“Run,” he repeats, sharper now.
Then the refuse pile beside us erupts into flame.
I don’t hesitate.
I scramble out, pulling my hood up, moving fast, long strides, steady, blending into the street before the guards even turn toward the smoke. Behind me, chaos blooms.
I don’t look back.
The tenements greet me with noise first, shouting, crying, laughter that isn’t joy. Then the smell hits. Rot, waste, too many bodies in too little space.
I climb.
Fourth Floor. Presidential Suite.
I knock. Silence, except for a faint, broken cry.
I open the door.
“Oh… Anna,” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer.
I rush forward, lifting the child from her arms. The baby coughs weakly, choking on shallow breaths. I sit, rocking gently, humming at first before the song comes.
“Hush now, little one…
Morning will find you soon…”
The crying softens. Then fades.
Too quiet.
Tears fall before I can stop them. I wrap them both carefully, tucking my own lace kerchief around Anna’s pale hair. Two silver coins land on the table beside the bread.
I leave.
At the cathedral, my footsteps echo too loudly.
I light two candles.
I don’t know what to say.
So I stand there, staring at the flames, and say nothing at all.
Art by Smithsonian American Art Museum, “Fire“
About the Author
Cassey writes poetry and personal essays about growing up between cultures. She is still trying to figure out what finding your voice actually means.