The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet 1)

My finger throbbed with its stitches and phantom itch as I listened to the baby’s arrival, my feverish mind tangling with pictures of sheep giving birth to lambs and sows giving birth to piglets until I collapsed back on my cot, convinced that the baby Mrs Mclary had delivered was part animal, part human.

I narrowed my eyes, inspecting the napping girl in front of me.

Her ears were cute like a human, not floppy like a cow. Her nose was tiny like a fairy, not shiny like a dog. Her skin was encased in a pink onesie, not downed with fur. She was as girly and as rosy as the well-cared for kids on that TV program, and it only fuelled my hate more.

* * * * *

Dusk stole the sharpness of the undergrowth, making shadows form and worries fester.

I’d been here too long.

And I still had no answer.

I’d left the baby an hour or so ago, slipping silently through the undergrowth to check out the river gurgling happily in the distance. I’d sat on its mossy banks for ages, staring at the ripples, imagining myself plucking her plump infant body from my backpack and shoving her beneath the surface.

Of the pressure I’d need to hold her under.

Of the ice I’d need to kill her and not falter.

And as try as I might, I reverted to the same conclusion I’d had this morning.

I couldn’t kill her.

Even though I wanted to.

And I couldn’t leave her to be eaten.

Even though I wanted to do that, too.

And I couldn’t take her back because even though she was loved by the devils who hurt me, she could never be permitted to grow up to be like them. She couldn’t be allowed to trade in lives or make money from unlucky kids like me.

I also couldn’t take her back because by now the Mclarys would’ve given up looking on their own estate and headed three farms down for the deer hunter dogs that could sniff out prey for miles.

The river wouldn’t be taking a life tonight, but it would be saving one.

A quiet scream cut through the trees and bracken, followed by a hushed cry. Unless I’d heard such a thing, I wouldn’t believe a scream could be quiet or a cry hushed.

But Baby Mclary managed it.

She also managed to haul my ass up and send me rocketing back to her to slap my hand over her gaping little mouth to shut her up.

The hounds would be on our tail.

I hated that I’d left it this long to remember that would be the next step of Mclary’s plan. We didn’t need any more bad luck on our side by her calling out to them.

“Shut up,” I hissed, my fingers gripping her pudgy cheeks.

Her blue eyes widened, glistening with tears and uncertain as a fawn’s.

“We need to leave.” I shook my head, cursing her for the thousandth time for making me a we.

I should be leaving. I should be running, swimming, hiding.

But because I couldn’t solve this problem, she’d have to come with me until I could.

She hiccupped behind my palm, a tentative tongue licking the salt from my skin. She squirmed a little, her two miniature hands reaching up to latch around my wrist, holding me tighter, slurping wildly as if starved for any nutrition.

Which she was.

So was I.

I was past the point of hunger, but I was used to such a condition.

She was a spoilt breast fed baby who didn’t understand the slicing pain in her chubby belly.

Tearing my hand away, I bared my teeth as her bottom lip wobbled and tears welled again.

Pointing sternly between her eyes, I snarled, “If you cry, I’m leaving you behind. You’re hungry? Well, so are many other creatures who will gladly eat you for supper.”

She blinked, wriggling deeper into the backpack and crushing my cheese.

“Oi!” My fingers dove into the bag, pushed her aside, and rescued the badly sat on cheese. “This is all we have; don’t you understand?”

She licked her lips, eyes wide on the unappetizing curdled mess.

I hugged it to my chest, possession and unwillingness to share rising in me. Feeding time in the barn meant the tentative bonds we might have with the other slave children were non-existent. We might trade holey blankets or borrow fourth-hand shoes, but food? No way. You fight for a scrap or you die.

There were no hand-outs.

Her fingers clutched at her blue ribbon, over and over again as her belly gurgled almost as loudly as mine. Her ugly face scrunched up with the beginnings of another scream.

My shoulders tensed. Violence bubbled. I honestly didn’t know what I’d do if she cried and didn’t shut up.

But as her lips spread and lungs inflated for noise, she tilted her head and looked right into my soul. She paused as if giving me a choice, a threat—a conniving weasel just like her mother and father.