Chapter 3: Offers
The next few hours pass in a daze. Elders and children alike come to pick up their nets, or drop more off for repair. I charge just as I always do, a careful balance of enough to survive without ignoring what they have given me. Still, I don’t put much energy towards it. I’m far more occupied thinking about Delia and Ishtar. Mostly Ishtar.
When I was old enough to fend for myself, my father accepted an offer on a whaling boat. He went up to Ishtar for a four month trip. He described the sea as a frozen wasteland, dangerous for the hidden ice floes and large beasts that call Ishtar their home. He brought back the only silver coins I’d ever seen in my life, enough to feed us for a year. He’d also brought back whale bones and a sailing needle.
That’s what I remember most. The whale bones. He brought them home for me to carve with, having seen whalers on his boat doing so during their downtime. Scrimshaw, he named it, and I had fallen in love. I experimented with driftwood, and only when I felt confident did I move to the bone. I’d never felt like something fitted me as much as carving did. It was like I fell into a trance, hands moving over the bones with more skill than I thought I could ever have.
I’ve moved on from using a single sailing needle, and my original work has long since been sold in an attempt to pay of even a part of my father’s debts. Still, I remember the pure joy I felt the first time I held the bones, the first time I looked at something that I had done and held it in my own hands. Proof that I wasn’t completely useless. I can forgive my father for everything, just for that.
I’m shaken from my reminiscing when I realize all the nets have been picked up. My pockets are 43 copper heavier, though I pack up and head to leave I spend five on some bread and pickled herring. That’ll be enough food for the next week, if I eat sparingly. The rest I save, just like I’ve been saving nearly every copper from the past eight years of markets.
Nearly 9,000 copper sits hidden in a purses in my bedroom. I’ve broken some out on occasion, of course. I don’t want to die in the present just because I’m too busy thinking about the future. During winter months I’ve bought blankets when ours wear to thin, or food if we are close to actually starving. Most of it I hoard away, touching it only to count it, and even then rarely. It’s all mine, hard work and sweat and tears creating a fortune that is to be my escape. To be my father’s salvation.
Leaving the town, I find myself tensing, hand reaching down to fidget with the bag at my waist. The comforting weight of the copper is nearly enough to comfort me, even as I see Mikhail Vincani leaning against a house on the edge of town. He’s waiting for me, just as he has been for the past two years.
“Guinever! How shocking it is to bump into you here.” He smiles at me, moving to walk beside me. After seeing Hirath, Mikhail’s smile is so fake I wonder if I’d carved it myself.
“You mean here in Wary? On a market day. Yeah, shocking,” I say, continuing past him, hoping that he won’t follow me to far.
“Warebonear,” He says through gritted teeth even as he continues to walk with me.
I smile. Mikhail and the rest of the Vincani family hate the nickname Wary. They insist on calling it Warebonear. They’re a bit full of themselves like that. Having founded the village, the Vincani’s seem to think the name is a slight against them. In truth, if it wasn’t before it certainly became one. After all, it’s a common warning that when entering Wary, be wary of the Vincani family.
One of the only rich families in town, they are the only merchants that reside full time in Wary. Travelling traders come through on occasion, but if you want something reliably, the Vincani family is your only hope. Which is why almost every person has been in debt to them, at one time or another. I consider myself to be more of a Wary folk than the Vincani’s, and I don’t even like Wary that much.
“So,” Mikhail begins, and I have to withhold a groan. “Have you thought about my offer?”
“I did,” I respond, beginning to walk a bit faster. Unfortunately, he manages to keep pace. “And somehow, despite thinking on it for a long time, my answer has the remained the same. No.”
“You won’t find better,” he warns. I resist the urge to whirl around and spit on him. I also resist the urge to tell him that anyone else in Wary would be better than him. My father would be proud. He doesn’t like it when I anger the Vincani’s.
“Probably not,” I say instead. “Yet still, no remains my response.”
He scoffs, and I glance over. His face is beet red.
“You’ll never be able to help a fisherman. No one is going to want to support a burden like you, and your father isn’t getting any younger. With me, you’d never have to worry.”
I think of Hirath, unable to work but still alive and cared for. The elders who are given gifts and the pick of fish whenever a harvest is bountiful. Even Rose, a young blind girl, lived comfortably until her death last winter of pneumonia. Of course, I can’t really compare us. After all, they all have reasons to prevent them from working. I’m just useless. Still, in the face of Mikhail’s words thinking of them is a comfort.
“I will not marry you, Mikhail,” I finally say.
We stop on the crest of the hill. He glares at me, fists clenched and face somehow even redder.
“Fine,” he says, and I turn to leave. Before I take even a step, he calls after me. “Oh, Guinevere!”
I stop and turn around.
“Remind your father that he missed last week’s payment. We’re going to have to charge a fine for that. If he needs a reminder of the total, I’ll be happy to provide that.”
I nod sharply, and turn again. I hear Mikhail mutter under his breath, and I pause for a second before making my way up the path again. As soon as I’m around a curve and out of sight, I break into a run.
My feet pound against the well-trod path, and I have the urge to county my coppers as soon as I reach home. Mikhail’s final words are echoing in my head, and they refuse to leave.
Maybe your father will see reason when you cannot.
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