Caladrius Dreams

Caladrius Dreams

Erin Ann McCarter

Copyright © 2016 by Erin Rebar

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, stored, or replicated in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except in cases of short quotations, as defined by law as fair use.

Sunlit Publishing

Cheney, WA

Visit our website at sunlitpublishing.com

First edition, ebook: July 2016

ISBN 978-0-9977998-0-4

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to a real person, living or dead, is fully coincidental and was unintended by the author.

Cover design by James Powers

To God,

who has given me all that was needed.

A bone to the dog is not charity. Charity is the bone shared with the dog, when you are just as hungry as the dog.

Jack London

-1-

Hunger

The air was heavy with the scent of burning things.  I found that fear trapped me, hidden in the closet where Auntie had set me and told me to stay.  Fear had made me motionless, but now heat was making me move.  The shouts and thundering of hooves had long since faded away.  All I could hear now was the crackling of fire.

  Auntie Margaret?  I untangled myself slowly from the clothes I had burrowed into on the floor.  There was no answer.  I called a little louder.  Nothing.  Auntie? Uncle?  I’m scared.  My voice warbled and tears spilled down my cheeks, cold against the heat on my skin.  I was still too small—my fingers couldn’t reach the doorknob—but when I pushed, the door swung open.  It hadn’t been shut all the way.  Black dust stuck to the bottoms of my feet as I wandered out into the living room. I paused between the juncture of the kitchen and the living room, wide eyes searching while my feet made trembling, backwards steps towards the door. 

  Auntie?  I— My voice trailed off as something bumped gently into the back of my head.  My hands came up and closed around the object, suspended at the level of my nose.  I turned around.  Uncle Barry’s boots were hanging from the rafters, dangling in a way that suggested they were attached to something.  My heel traced a tentative step backward.  Slowly, I lifted my gaze…

   I was upright and tense at the perceived threat before I could even register what was going on.  Reality came swiftly, like a plunge through cold water; my unconscious mind had abandoned the dream before it could travel my memory’s path any further.  That day wasn’t something I wanted to relive—the day the only family I had ever known died.  Auntie Margaret and Uncle Barry weren’t really my aunt and uncle—those titles were only terms of endearment—but they were the people who had found me and taken me in when I had been abandoned by my parents as a baby. 

  For a moment, the memory of fire warmed me, but as my body adjusted, the cold crept in.  Somewhere in the back of my mind I noted that there wasn’t much difference between heat and cold.  The burning sensation worn into the sides of my arms and the tops of my thighs was the same, and I could see my breath coming in puffs which reminded me hauntingly of smoke.  The smell of smoke lingered, but it wasn’t from the air around me.   

  For as long as I could remember, the dreams had been there, waiting just outside of consciousness and ready to ensnare.  They were always the same, as real and solid as the world around me—so similar in fact that at times I had difficulty telling the difference. Most of the time, I couldn’t make sense of them.  They were chaos, shadows and screaming, bits of thoughts, and memories that didn’t seem to be my own. 

  But sometimes my dreams were coherent, and those were always the worst.  On those nights, I relived my worst memories; the day Auntie Margaret and Uncle Barry died, my first night on the streets, days of hunger and cold, infected wounds, and fear—I forced the dreams out of my mind.  It wouldn’t do to dwell on them now.  I pulled my knees into my chest and pushed away a scrap of garbage which I had used to hide myself from unfriendly eyes.  My cheek had been braised by a rough cobblestone in my sleep and I pressed it against a shoulder to numb the pain.  After a moment of wiggling my toes to move the blood back into them, I stood.  The most important thing now was food. 

  Out on the corner, at the edge of the town buildings and near the King’s Park, I lifted my eyes to the sky.  The midmorning fog made it difficult to see, but my eyes soon found what they were looking for.  A raven’s silhouette, dark body blending perfectly with the clouds above, circled lazy loops overhead.  I pursed my lips and let out a low whistle.  He descended and dropped a crust of bread at my feet.  I opened my mind, and let in his thoughts. 

  "Thank you, Hookbeak.  Crouching, I gathered the crust in a hand.  It was hardly bigger than my palm, but it would be enough for now.  I pulled my cold, cracked lips into a smile.  This helps me more then you know."

  "Don’t worry about it…sorry I couldn’t get more…not much out there…not much at all."  He examined me with an intelligent eye, but there was a fuzziness to the edge of his thoughts—like a child speaking burble—that I could barely make out.  With a sharp nod, he took off and disappeared again into the clouds.  I let out a long, slow breath and lifted the crust towards my lips.

   The crunch of gravel to my left made me freeze.  Someone was behind me.  Hey Carrot!  A voice called out.  The hairs on the back of my neck rose.  I knew that voice.

  I turned slowly, balling the crust into a hand and guarding it behind my back.  It wouldn’t be safe to eat it here, not with him standing right in front of me.  He would probably see it as an act of defiance and an excuse to pick a fight.  Already, he wore a calculating smile. 

  He glanced to his right and his left.  Two other boys appeared from the shadows of the nearest building.  They came like hyenas, their gaunt faces stretched bone tight, their hands as starved as mine.

  What’s that you have, bird-girl? the middle one said.  I set my face so they couldn’t see my fear, and ignored the shudder that ran down my spine.

  How about you hand it over? said the boy to his left.

  We promise it won’t hurt…for long.

  Their voices were like echoes of the night.  Joe-Boy, Sammuel, and McAllen.  Joe-Boy, the biggest, was their leader. His blonde hair grew in patches and an ugly scar ate up the right side of his face. 

  Sammuel, to his left, was his brother—or so they claimed—and was only a little smaller.  He looked the way Joe-Boy might if his hair had grown in and his face were smooth. 

  On Joe-Boy’s right was McAllen, the newest member of the group.  He was small and walked with an awkward slump that suggested his bones hadn’t grown quite right.  Poor nutrition, probably. 

  All three of them were kids, forced to live on the streets for lack of family, or a home.  Just like me.  But unlike myself, they stole to get their fill.  I backed up slowly.  I didn’t stand a chance fighting them—it would be a battle I could not afford.  They were older than I.  Larger.  Stronger.  But they had forgotten one crucial ingredient.  I was faster.

  Girl…  Joe-Boy’s voice was threatening.  I quivered as he stepped closer still.  And then, before he could even think to grab me, I ran.  I ran across the street, splashing through muddy puddles.  Leaping over cobblestone holes.  I didn’t glance back to see if they’d followed. My only goal, my only thought, was to get away and have a crust of my own.  One crust could mean the difference between living and starving in the night.

  I turned right at Court Street, bumping through pedestrians and sidestepping a horse and cart.  A woman selling flowers from a basket on the corner had to jump out of my way, leaving roses crushed and soggy on the wet street.  I didn’t stop to apologize.  I could hear them behind me.  Faster.  I had to go faster.  Up ahead was an old alleyway, partially hidden by rubble and a couple trees.  I weaved into the merchants surrounding it and used the crowd as cover.  Squeezing past a hawker’s cart, I threw myself into the alleyway and paused, letting my breath catch up with me.  Running footsteps pounded closer, and then faded away.  I was safe. 

  I turned around, pressing my back against the dingy wall and sliding exhausted into the dirt.  Then I unclenched my fist and glanced down at the crust in my palm.  It was slightly smashed, but still edible. 

  My eyes found the street.  It was clear.  Still, I didn’t know how long it would take them to find me.  It would be best to eat now, and slip through the alley the back way.  Maybe I could find somewhere warm to hide and spend the next few hours conserving energy.  I glanced to the road again, and then over my shoulder into the alley.  My eyes came to a halt at a shape hidden several feet from me behind a pile of junk.  A pair of large eyes blinked at me, just barely shining in the low light. 

  Tucked against the wall was a woman.  A baby lay wrapped in her arms. Her shoulders quivered in a way which suggested she was afraid of me.  A feeling grew in the pit of my stomach and I glanced at the crust in my fist.  She needed it more than I did.  I held out my hand, crust still firmly clenched in my fingertips.  The woman shook her head.  Her eyes found the ground.  Please take it…?  Before she could refuse, I forced the crust into her palm and walked away.

  I found a dry niche under the eave of a deserted storefront and curled myself under it.  I would have to find more food soon, but here I could wait out the rain. The pinch of hunger gradually faded, and I welcomed the relief.  When the rain was gone and I no longer ran the risk of wetness bringing on a cold, I would venture out and begin again.  The ravens wouldn’t have anymore food today, but if I could last until the rain stopped, I still had a chance.

* * *

  Hey Carrot!  The voice belonged to Joe-Boy,  I recognized it without turning around.  I was sitting in a sun patch on the west side of town,  a grey woolen hat pulled over my ears and a yard of moth eaten linen draped over my shoulders like a cloak.  Did you enjoy your crust?  It was hard to ignore him when his words carried such a sting. 

  Disgruntled, I tucked my red hair up under my hat and out of his sight.  I hated being called carrot or any other term that referenced my hair.  The mention of my red hair was an insult—it marked me as belonging to the lower class—and Joe-Boy never failed to remind me of that fact. Look what I have! he said. It’s a beauty isn’t it? 

  Crouching just behind me, he waved a loaf of bread near my face.  I winced when a slight breeze brought the scent across my nose.  It was warm still.  I could feel the heat coming off of it.  My eyes flickered shut.  I could almost taste the crumbs.  A low breath shuddered through my chest and my parched throat convulsed.  Please go away.  My voice was strained, but I kept the tone flat.  I couldn’t let him see weakness.  This was a game to him, and I refused to play it.  I turned my back and hoped he would leave.  He didn’t.

  Where’d you get this little treasure?  Suddenly my shoulders ached with cold. He had taken my scrap of cloth.  I could see him out of the corner of my eye, running it through his hands and then tossing it up over his shoulder.  The upper portion of my back tensed, and I buried my fingers into my skirt.  I didn’t answer him.  It doesn’t matter, it’s mine now.  I didn't need to see the smirk on his face to visualize it.

  Only my pride kept me from shivering.  I stood and ignored him, walking away and wrapping my arms around my narrow shoulders when I knew he was out of sight.  He didn’t follow. 

  The street was shiny from rain and I padded across it, avoiding the puddles that pooled between the cobblestones.  My bare feet were nearly numb.  I couldn’t feel the roughness of the road, but my steps were cautious anyway. Even a small cut could lead to an infection, and

out here, infections often ended in death.

  I rounded the outskirts of the city, following the road which I knew would lead me to its center.  For a moment I paused, watching the mist which clung to the trees.  It would be winter soon.  The ice in the air and the colors on the trees made me sure of it.  Winter was the worst time of year, for obvious reasons.  The cold air smelled of death.

  The world around me changed as I walked.  It seemed almost as if the poverty that filled the streets could somehow remind the people that life wasn’t as cheery as they tried to pretend.  So they erased it.  The waste piled by the buildings disappeared.  So did the dirt.  The grime.  There was food here.  Food and paint.  Paint which decorated walls and faces, hiding the tight emptiness from view.

  An old, toothless man sat on the elevated edge of a storefront, a bandage over his eyes and a crutch lying on the stone steps.  He was like me, a pile of rags and dirt who was desperate enough to sit at a street corner where he did not belong.  The stone beneath him was recently swept.  Dust fell off his sleeves and dirtied the ground.  He rattled his can at me, blind hands searching.  I’m sorry, I whispered and continued to walk.  I had nothing to give.

  I skirted Main Street, walking down a back alley until I found a street that wasn’t as crowded.  Once I found a suitable corner, I pressed myself into a painted wall, well out of the way of the carriages which jostled down the street. 

  It was a long time before I was noticed by anyone.  Most simply went around me, not looking up from the ground as they walked.  Others carefully held their eyes away as if I were a disease that could be caught just by looking.  A few noticed me, and crossed to the other side of the street.  I hunched my shoulders, trying to look as inconspicuous and, simultaneously, pitiful as possible.  A large woman stood by me, carefully looking over my head and into the shop windows that lay behind.  After a moment of hesitation, I approached her.

  Excuse me?  She looked the other way like she could not hear.  M’lady?  Unlike Joe-Boy and his gang, I would never steal.  But, in desperate times, I could be driven to beg.  M’lady…please— I dropped my eyes to stare at her sturdy boots and reached out to touch the edge of her ruffled hem.  She looked down at me then.  I could feel my cheeks heat under her stare.  I peeked up to view her face.

  The way her eyes caught mine made me realize I would win nothing from the woman.  She drew herself to her full height—several heads taller than myself—and her face became very red.  She looked like she wanted to slap me, but seemed to be hesitating.  To react would be to admit she had noticed.  To react, would mean she had let scum distract her from her day.  Her gloved hands groped for her heavy skirts and, lifting them, she moved past me.  I had to stumble backwards to keep out of her way.  My foot slid on an uneven stone, and I tumbled into the street.

  Hey you! Get out of the way!  I could barely hear the coachman’s voice over the grind of carriage wheels, slicing air next to my ear.  Mud splashed from the spokes, showering my back.  I rolled onto my side and out of the way.

  For a moment, all I could hear was the sound of my panting and the quick flutter of my heart.  Then my head cleared, and I forced myself to my knees.  The sound of footsteps punctuated the air. Slowly, I raised my gaze.  A pair of feet had stopped in front of me.  I didn’t quite trust what would happen if I looked, but my eyes darted upwards before I could stop myself.  A hand was extended above me.  For a long moment, all I could do was stare.

  Take it child, a voice prodded, coming from a long way up.  I cringed back from the voice, but I took the hand. 

-2-

Notice

  He was wearing a dark grey cloak like the ones the heroes wear in stories.  For a moment, my mind tried to follow that train of thought.  I pulled it away.  This man was not a hero. He was simply a kindhearted man who had appeared in the right place, at the right time. 

  He turned sharply and moved away from me.  I followed.  A man willing to help me might be willing to give me a piece of copper, or even a silver for some food.  He turned back after several strides and halted.  His eyes found mine and I stopped too.

  What do you want?  His speech had the rough edge of a voice used too often—or of one used not often enough.  I pondered what to say in reply, and then decided to play meek.  A man willing to help me was a man who probably liked the feeling of saving people.  Playing the part of a starving child would be the best way to win his heart—and his coin.  I said nothing and stared at the ground, rolling my shoulders up to my ears and clutching my stomach as if I couldn’t decide whether I were more cold, or more hungry.  I didn’t lie, it was the truth.  Sometimes, the truth makes the best act of all.  After a long second, I looked up.  He was already half a block away. 

  Wait!  I ran after him, jogging until I fell in at his side.

  I’m busy, he said, his brusque voice flat.  His face made no expression and his eyes stayed fixed ahead.  Whatever you want, I can promise you I don’t have the time.

  It seemed I had been wrong.  He was not kindhearted, and didn’t have the least amount of interest in saving anybody. I can help, I said, dropping the starving child act and pulling myself up to my full height.  All I ask for is a couple of coppers, and I will do anything you need.  I can be the cheapest labor you’ve ever had.  A business man, that’s what he was.  I would talk business.

  No.  We had come to a halt again, and his eyes focused on something far behind me. 

  Why not, sir?  I am a good worker, I know how to keep my mouth shut and—

  It’s dangerous business.  His tone made the answer sound final, but that wasn’t good enough.  I needed him.  I forced myself in front of him, blocking his path.  My eyes found their way to his face, and when I opened my mouth, the desperation which had gathered in the pit of my stomach leaked into my voice.

  No more dangerous than what will happen to me if I don’t get a meal for the fifth night straight.

  I cringed when I heard his feet move towards me, my eyes turning down and my body bracing for the backhanded strike that would knock me to the ground.  Above me the man sighed heavily, and suddenly his hand was around my wrist.  The warmth from the contact made my skin prickle.  Don’t you have anyone to look after you? A mother?  A brother perhaps?

  No, sir. 

  Stay here.  We were outside a bakery, the one on the left corner of the outer edge of Lowell Street, next to the bookstore and behind the marble statue of the dead king’s brother.  He went into the shop, and my nose twitched as the sweetness of freshly baked bread flooded my senses when he opened the door. 

  He was gone only minutes, but it felt like hours.  When he came back he carried a steaming loaf of bread.  The pinch in my stomach became almost nauseating.  He leaned against the wall of the shop beside us, and held the loaf out to my trembling hands.  The weight of it made my hands dip and I held it like it were made of glass. 

  I couldn’t remember the last time I had touched fresh food.  It warmed my palms and crumbled beneath my grasp.  I caught the crumbs in a hand and stuck them to my tongue.  Then I tore off a small end.  I took a bite, and it melted on my tongue.  A deep sigh of relief passed through me.  The rest of the loaf I tucked under my arm for later.  A loaf this size could last me a week, maybe more. 

  "What’s your name, child?

  His voice startled me and my eyes snapped towards him; I had nearly forgotten his presence entirely.  For a moment, I hesitated, unsure of how to answer.  No one had ever asked me that.  I don’t know, I said finally.  I don’t remember.  People call me Scum.  Girl.  Ugly.  Hey you.  That’s all.

   Questions buzzed in my head, but I didn't ask them.  Who was this man, and what was he doing here?  His appearance didn’t quite match the people in the streets around us, and his accent was strange.  I allowed myself to examine his face for a moment, something I didn’t normally take the time to do.  He was ruggedly handsome, possessing that sort of weathered face which made you wonder whether he was young, or old.  His caramel colored eyes were a soft brown that seemed at odds with their hawk-like expression.  He wasn’t looking at me anymore; his eyes had fixed on something behind my head.  His hand grabbed my arm. 

  Walk, he said gruffly.  I didn’t like the tone of his voice.  It had changed into something harsher, something less caring and more wild.  There was a different feeling on the air. 

  What?  Why?

  I said walk.  Now.  He pulled me from the wall and halfway down the street before I could protest.  Running was out of the question, his hand was too tight around my arm.  I knew there was no chance of my breaking free.  I took the only option left to me, and followed him. 

  We turned a corner and went down a side street.  It wasn’t long before the crowd thinned and the only sound I could hear was the splash of my feet in puddles and the wet drumming of rain against rooftops. When we turned another corner he stopped suddenly, drawing himself up against a wall and peering into the darkness.  I copied him and flattened myself to it, trying to quiet my breaths.  I could hear my heart rattling in my chest. 

  A few seconds passed with nothing but silence.  Then the rustle of dried leaves made my eyes snap around to the left.  A figure appeared around the corner nearest us.  It was tall—a man, judging by the breadth of him—dressed all in black, his face shrouded by a deep hood.  He moved towards us with a deliberateness that sent chills through my bones.  Another man appeared at the corner across from us. 

  The thoughts in my head were too confused to make out.  I realized suddenly the grey cloaked man beside me no longer held my arm.  This wasn’t my fight.  Breaking from my place beside him, I ran.

  Words that sounded like swearing chased me.  I could hear heavy footsteps pounding just behind my lighter, shoeless patter.  I didn’t take the time to see who was following, the man in the grey cloak, or the men in the black.  It didn’t really matter after all.  I wanted nothing to do with any of them.  The air had felt like death back there, and survival had always been my only goal.  In my hand, I carried what promised me that.  Clutching the loaf of bread tighter to my chest I ran faster, my breaths coming in startled gasps. 

  The grimy, tattered rags of my skirts twisted around my legs as I ran.  I didn’t notice until it was too late.  I tripped, falling hard against the flagstones and skidding across them.  My hat tumbled off, leaving my ears noticeably colder and my hair scattered in a tangle down my back.  The pavement shredded the skin on my elbows and my loaf of bread smashed into the cold wet ground.  It rolled away from me, breaking apart and sinking into the deep mud.  With a gasp I reached for it, but before my hands could take hold of any of the crumbs I was hauled to my feet.  A fist held the back of my dress.  For a brief moment the warm grey fabric of a cloak surrounded me, rippling out in front of me from his sudden momentum change.  Then we were running again.    His hand pulled at me down one alley and into another.  It ripped me around the corner and then with a suddenness that made me stumble, it threw me to a halt.  I was pulled through the door of a small inn.  The man in the grey cloak stood beside me.  He didn’t look at me and for a long time, he did not speak.  The black cloaked figures were nowhere in sight.  A few bread crumbs still clung to the fabric of my dress.  The loaf itself was gone, soaking in a puddle in an alley somewhere.  My fingers felt empty without it.

  Foolish child, the man muttered.  His breath was so even that I thought perhaps I had only imagined him running beside me.  It seemed more likely that he had always been here.  Waiting.  They could have, and very likely would have killed you, had they caught you,  he said, pulling me away from the window.  He hadn’t looked at me once.  His eyes peered out into the street.  It doesn’t matter.  They will forget you soon enough.  This is a safe house.  They cannot come in here.  Stay here an hour, and then you can go.  It will be like none of this ever happened.  He turned to leave, and my voice bubbled suddenly out of my throat.

  Sir? 

  What do you want? He turned to me suddenly, a rough motion that made me flinch away from him.  His eyes caught mine, and then widened slightly.  His hand reached out, his fingers wrapping around a strand of my dark red hair and rolling it between them as if he were just noticing something for the first time.  He dropped the strand after a moment but his face remained distant.  Come with me.

  Why?  He didn’t answer.  Instead, he turned abruptly and began to climb the stairs.  I hesitated for a moment, and then followed.  A girl less desperate than I would have refused, but following him could mean food, and that food was worth anything.  I paused at the top of the steps to look back.  My feet faltered a moment and I had to tear my eyes away from the door that lay behind.  Away from the wind and the rain and the dirt.  Something felt different inside of me and I wasn’t sure what.  Like the wind and the rain and the dirt didn’t belong to me anymore, nor I to them.  I didn’t like the feeling.      A sudden movement caused me to look back.  Just outside, a hooded figure disappeared around the window’s edge.  The man called to me from the top of the stairs, and I hurried to catch up.

-3-

Revelation

  What’s going on?  What do you want from me?  Why—

  Did he see you? he said, cutting me off.  You said you saw a man.  Did he see you?  He closed the door behind me and I jumped at the snap. 

  I—

  Did he?  This is very important. 

  I nodded slowly and looked around, wrapping my arms around my chest.  The room was mostly bare.  A writing desk sat in one corner; a few pieces of worn parchment, a bottle of ink, and a quill decorated its top.  The chair was made of sturdy wood.  Across from the desk was a low bed, the sheets too white for the room and the blanket a dark cream.  An old sack and a pile of clothes lay at its base.  A heavily lacquered chair sat at its foot.  The chair was out of place in the stark room, with its red velvet cushions and golden arms glinting brightly in the dull candlelight. 

  The man threw his cloak on a peg.  He sat on the lacquered chair, pulling off his boots and digging through his hair with frustrated fingers.  I stood awkwardly by the door, biting at my lip.  Who are they?  I asked.  After a second, he stood and cleared a place on the floor.  There was a high window on the north end of the room.  It was growing dark outside. 

  Baldassarre’s men.

  The dead king’s brother?  Baldassarre.  The name sent chills down my spine.  It wasn't often I heard that name spoken.  People around here avoided it not because they feared the name, but because names held honor, something a man who could kill his own brother did not deserve.  By denying Baldassarre his name, it was like the people were denying him his humanity, his sense of self.  Baldassarre was the dead king's brother, because no matter how many times he usurped the throne, to the people he would only ever be the brother of a king.

  Yes.

  Why are they following you?  Why can’t I leave?

    You ask too many questions.  Get some rest.  We leave in the morning.  When I didn’t move, he came towards me.  Despite my protests, he lifted me and deposited me on the bed.  He made a simple sweeping motion with his hand and the room went dark.  My heart thudded to a halt. 

Magic.  The thought whizzed through my mind, and I suddenly felt rather sick.  I peeked at the man.  He was lying on the floor now and I couldn’t tell if he was asleep or awake.  His back was to me, and he made no movement except the slow expansion of his ribcage at each breath. The wind outside the window made a strange sort of banging and I gave a startled jump, pulling the blankets up to my chin before huddling down into them and breathing their warmth.  I peered at him again over the edges of my blanket, and then buried myself from sight.  Magic.           

  I had heard of magic before.  Of course I had.  But I had never actually seen it, and I had never thought I would.  Only those of noble blood could do magic.  Nobles weren’t common in my part of the city—indeed they weren’t common in Golg at all. 

  Golg was the capital of the northern end of Saldor,  the end the dead king’s brother had seized.  Those nobles with any scrap of honor, the ones who hadn’t followed Baldassarre in his coup, lived on fiefs throughout the countryside and further south near Saldor’s old capital—the so called golden city, Caeyra.  Whatever nobles lived here—they weren’t heroes.  They were part of the deceit, part of the blackness that clung to the land like a disease.   

  They weren’t seen often, and I wasn’t sure if I really cared to see any at all.  I didn’t know anything more about them than what I had heard on the lips of gossiping strangers, and in the voices of bards who sung stories in the streets, and I didn’t want to.  This man…if he could do magic, he was a noble.   

  I buried myself deeper into the blankets and tried to focus on other things, like the feeling of sleeping on a bed.  Sleep was a long time in coming.

* * *

  The sun hadn’t yet risen when he woke me.  My eyes snapped open the minute his hand touched my shoulder.  Years on the street had taught me to sleep lightly.  I rolled over to face him and then sat up, instantly awake.  Here.  Change into these, he said gruffly.  He tossed a bundle on my lap and then left the room.  I stared at the door for a moment and then crawled from the bed, holding the bundle to my chest.

  A candle winked dimly in the corner of the room, and I fumbled with the tie of the sack, unable to see the knots clearly.  The knot stuck and then slid as it came undone.  Slowly, I dumped the contents out onto the bed, not certain what to expect.  The glint of a white shirt caught my eye.  Clothes.  Clean clothes.  I hadn’t worn anything clean in a very long time. 

  The lighting in the room was too low to make out the details, but I could tell the fabric was finer than anything I’d