Today's Reading
It had carried off everything Roxannah cherished in her father and left behind a cruel husk. She had the bruises to prove it.
"Perhaps she is in the kitchen, cleaning up from your dinner." Her mother's voice trembled with strain.
Her father kicked the chest again. "Dinner, you call it? That bowl of peasant soup? I told her to cook me lamb."
He had. But lamb cost silver—silver that he had neglected to provide. The butcher refused to extend credit to their family anymore. Years ago, her father's noble name had meant something in Susa. But his unsteady temper and foolish spending had wiped most of that ancient honor from their neighbors' memories.
These days, they had no income other than the coin provided from a modest parcel of land her grandfather had long ago mortgaged to a farmer. It was the last of what remained of their family's once rich pasturelands and orchards. The paltry revenue stretched only far enough to fill her father's cup with cheap wine. He had long since sold off every other valuable inheritance he could. Her grandfather's precious herds had disappeared over the years, bartered off in exchange for her father's mounting debts.
Save for their house, with its leaking roof and creaky floors, a handful of dented furniture, and a few scrawny chickens, nothing remained of her parents' formerly ample heritage.
Hence, no lamb for supper.
The lid of the chest groaned alarmingly as someone leaned their weight against it. "Where has that useless girl gone? I have a thing or two I want—" The staccato sound of distant pounding brought her father's rant to an abrupt halt. Someone at the door seemed determined to gain entry.
"Who can that be at this hour? People have no manners." He belched loudly.
'Speaking of manners'... Roxannah's lips twitched with wry amusement. This was her best weapon against the despair that sometimes tried to wriggle inside. Laughter. She spent too much time hiding in chests, taking cover under stairs, finding shelter on the rooftop, trying to survive the wine-soaked hours. How else could she endure it if not for laughter?
The knock came again, loud and imposing.
"Where is that good-for-nothing boy? Why does he not answer?"
Her mother cleared her throat. "He ran away."
The last of their long-suffering servants, the boy had sneaked away during the night, tired of waiting for rations that came less frequently than his master's blows.
"That ingrate! After all I did for him."
He had, indeed, done a lot for the boy. He had taught him to run very very fast in the opposite direction.
Her mother coughed but held her tongue, as she always did.
Her father cursed. "Must I always tend to everything myself?"
Roxannah listened to the sound of unsteady footsteps retreating from the chamber. When they disappeared in the direction of the courtyard, she lifted the lid a fraction.
"Mother?" she whispered.
The slim woman leaning against the wall straightened quickly, pasting a smile on her tired face. "I wondered if you might be hiding in that chest."
"I could tell it wasn't going to be a good night when he screamed at the wall for being in the wrong spot. His temper is sure to cool by morning. A few more hours out of his sight, and I might be safe."
Her mother shook her head. "Don't take his words to heart, daughter. That dinner was delectable. What you do with food is—"
The sound of shouting cut off her mother's words. Roxannah slid behind the half-closed door and watched the scene unfolding below. A hand lifted to her mouth. "Another bailiff."
It would be a while before her father returned, then. Roxannah crawled out of the chest and joined her mother. From where they stood, they had a clear view of the courtyard where her father stood screaming at a short, bald-headed man. The bailiff spoke in soft tones they could not make out.
...
