Lucy A. McLaren

I heard mother’s humming as I pushed through the crooked wooden door of our rundown home. She was on a cushion on the floor beside the fire, my sister’s head on her lap, smiling as she stroked the golden hair that cascaded across her thighs. “Such beautiful hair,” she said. “Had it since she was a baby.” When she glanced up at me, the love in her eyes melted away and she was unable to hide the flicker of disappointment. “Home then, are ye?” Her gaze dropped to the dirty sack at my feet. “Not sold much, it seems.”

“No,” I mumbled, toeing the bag with my scuffed boots. “With the autumn festival over, the—”

Mother shook her head, a smirk tweaking her thin lips—as if she’d known I’d fail and was just waiting for me to prove it. “No excuses, Lany. It’s money we need. Food. Not your useless words.”

I turned away as she started humming again. Once, there might have been tears in my eyes, a quiver on my lip. Not anymore. I stalked away and curled myself into the threadbare blanket on my mouldy mattress.

I’d had enough.

***

Later that night, as mother slept beside the pitiful fire with my sister, I crept from my bed.

I moved close, ensuring they both breathed deeply, undisturbed by my presence. They faced away from the fire; Anya curled round mother’s back. I retrieved the knife from my belt—a small purchase I’d made with the money I’d been secretly saving. It glinted in the firelight, sharp enough for my requirements. I moved round the sleeping figures, looked at my sister with unconcealed disdain before squatting down, watching her face for a moment longer. I reached forward.

My task wouldn’t take long.

I slashed the knife down, slicing through Anya’s braided yellow locks like so much butter.

Who’s beautiful now? I thought, grinning to myself as I tucked Anya’s hair into the pouch beneath my cloak. I moved towards the door and crept into the night without a backward glance.

The wigmaker would pay a pretty penny for such treasure, and I’d be gone before the dawn.