Heartfelt Sounds Read Free

growing narrower and narrower as the street squeezes—walls creeping over me.
    It is now when I hear deep whispers. The short whinny of a clip-clopping horse, with carriage wheels singing upon the flagstones. They come from behind me.
    As the street tightens and the road goes on and on—the horse and carriage come closer. The unfamiliar voices close in. The world spins and my heart jumps into my throat as I fear that they will continue on—trampling me. Behind me, the large beast snorts.
    It comes to a clip-clopping stop.
    “Arvel, boy—thought you had gotten used to these tiny streets.” a man, raspy. The grizzled voice of an elder.
    The beast taps my head with its slimy snout. I squeak, holding the zither to my chest tighter.
    “I think there's someone up there—”
    “Who in their right mind would stop on these streets? Excuse me!”
    I freeze. I dare not move as boots fall to the flagstones.
    My arms tremble. The zither clatters against me.
    “Are you lost?” Another voice, younger. A boy.
    “She ain't lost—she's one of those whores. Running away, eh?” a hard hand grasps me. Spins me around. “Wearing nothing but a shift—how daring. What're you in for, darling?”
    A weathered map of a face. Tanned. Almond shaped eyes sit upon his face like holes cut into cardboard. A wooden pipe juts from the corner of his mouth, smoke rising from it. Jerkin and breeches are tobacco stained.
    I've only seen men adorned in crisp cloth-of-gold. Old men. The Orthella's patrons resembled wise men draped in supple cotton surcoats. The clothing of the east, Lore told me once. The lawless east. The only people who lived and worked in Felicity were sellers—sellers of two things: bodies and souls.
    I wondered which one this man sold, as he stared me up and down. He evaluates me. Fixes my face into his mind.
    “What a pretty runaway you are, too.” a smile that does not meet his narrowed eyes. “Boy—c'mere and meet this pretty young thing.”
    A young man scampers over. He resembles his father—but only comes up to the elder's torso. Chestnut hair swirls about his head, like amber clouds. His clothing resembles his father's, but without the tobacco stains. His tunic is stark white. He peers at me—I peer back.
    I clutch my zither to my chest.
    “How old are you, girl?”
    My eyes flicker, my gaze coming to the older man. “I don't know, sir.”
    He harrumphs .Brings his hand to meet his hairy chin and scratches it. “You're a polite one. You know how much the Saints gives us for you runaways?”
    “Six pieces.” the little boy smiles. “Gets me exactly—”
    “Gets us nothing is what!” the older man hisses. Spits the pipe from his lip and catches it.
    I breathe, “The Saints pays for…?”
    Black eyes meet mine. They are hard. Evil. “The Saints pays for girls who run away. For girls who decide the whoring life isn't for them. You one of those girls?”
    My mouth drops. I shake my head.
    Softly, the man chuckles. He pockets the pipe. “Course not, that's what they all say. Yuka—get the rope!”
    The young man clambers towards the carriage as my eyes widen—I catch my breath— rope? What did they intend to do? “I'm not a Saints' girl!” I tell him—face reddening. “I'm not—I swear!”
    When the boy jumps from the carriage, a rope of tight yellow threads in his hand, the elder smiles. Blackened teeth sprout from his mouth like ugly flowers. “Something you can do to persuade us, darling? Something you can give us?”
    I hold my zither to my chest. I hug it—my eyes stare.
    There was nothing— nothing. An inkling creeps up my spine at what he must be asking for. My body. That's what he wants. I think to run, but I'm not faster than a horse, and the street only becomes more narrow. Only squeezes more. He'd catch me. I'd trip.
    I want to go home.
    The man holds out his hand. Twitches the fingers upon his palm. “Ten pieces.”
    Of what?
    I've never handled money in my life. But I have some. I