Chapter 5 - Chapter 4

The morning sun crept lazily over the Weston farm, its feeble warmth doing little to push back the chill that clung to the air. The horizon stretched endlessly, the fields a patchwork of browns and greens, broken only by the sagging roof of the barn and the thin column of smoke rising from the chimney. For Queenie Weston, the day already felt heavier than she could bear.

Her arms ached from yesterday's labor, the kind of bone-deep fatigue that no amount of rest could ease. The bucket of scraps she balanced on her hip felt impossibly heavy, though she knew better than to stop. Her bare feet shuffled through the uneven dirt, her steps slow and deliberate as she approached the pigpen.

The pigs greeted her with eager snorts, their pink bodies jostling against the slats of the fence. Q wrinkled her nose at the smell, thick and sour, knowing it would cling to her skin long after the work was done.

"Alright, alright," she muttered, her voice low and hoarse. She heaved the tub toward the trough, her fingers white-knuckled around its rim.

The fence post caught the edge of the bucket. Before she could right it, the whole thing tipped forward, and the contents spilled across the muddy ground. Rotting vegetables and spoiled stew splattered in every direction, the pigs diving into the mess with delighted squeals.

"No, no, no!" Q dropped to her knees, trying to scoop the scraps back into the trough, but the mud swallowed her efforts. Her hands smeared through the filth, trembling with frustration, as her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps.

"Queenie!"

The voice struck her like a lash. She froze, her hands still buried in the muck, as her mother's shadow fell over her.

Q turned slowly, her stomach twisting. Her mother stood a few feet away, her expression sharp enough to draw blood. The early sunlight caught in her thinning hair, streaked with gray, and turned her face into a mask of cold fury.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I—I was trying to—"

The slap came without warning. The crack of it echoed across the yard, scattering the crows perched on the fence. Q stumbled back, her heels slipping in the mud as she fell hard onto her side. The sting burned hot across her cheek, spreading in a sharp, angry line.

"Trying?" her mother hissed, looming over her. The hem of her skirt skimmed the mud, but she didn't flinch. Her eyes, sharp and cold, bore into Q like a blade. "Trying to embarrass this family? Waste what little we have left? You can't even feed the pigs without ruining it, can you?"

"I—" Q's voice cracked, her words dissolving under the weight of her mother's glare.

"You useless girl," her mother spat. Her voice was low, venomous, each word cutting deeper than the last. "How do you expect to survive out there? You can't even handle the life you've got."

Q pushed herself up, her palms slick with mud. But her mother's boot came down hard on her wrist, pinning her to the ground. The weight was unbearable, not because of the pressure, but because it held her in place, small and powerless.

"Stay there," her mother snapped, her voice ice now. "Maybe the pigs will teach you something useful, because god knows I haven't managed it."

"I'm sorry," Q choked out, her voice trembling. "I didn't mean to—"

"Didn't mean to!" Her mother let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and jagged, like shattered glass. "You never mean to, Queenie. But that doesn't change the fact that you ruin everything you touch. You'll end up just like that father of yours, broken and useless."

The mention of her father sent a sharp pang through Q's chest. Her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, determined not to let a single tear fall.

Her mother stepped back, brushing the mud from her skirt as if to rid herself of Q entirely.

"Clean this up," she ordered, her voice flat and distant. "And don't come inside until it's done. If you do, you'll be eating with the pigs tonight."

Her footsteps faded, leaving Q alone in the muck. She stayed there for a long moment, her body trembling as she fought back the tide of emotions threatening to break free. The slap still burned on her cheek, but the shame—hot and suffocating—hurt far more.

She couldn't stay. Not here. Not anymore.

By the time she reached her room, her movements were quick, frantic. She grabbed what little she owned: a threadbare scarf, a spare dress, and most importantly, the box of letters she had written for Maddy. The worn papers were the only thing in the world that still felt hers.

She didn't pack food. She didn't pack water. None of it mattered. She had only one thought, burning bright and fierce in her mind: find Maddy.

The road stretched out before her, a long ribbon of dirt and stone that seemed to go on forever. At first, the adrenaline carried her. She walked with purpose, her gaze fixed on the horizon, her arms clutching the box of letters to her chest.

But as the hours dragged on, the weight of the journey began to sink in. The sun climbed higher, its heat beating down on her back. Her stomach growled, empty and aching, and her throat felt parched. Her steps faltered, her legs heavy with exhaustion, but she pressed on, refusing to let the doubts creeping into her mind take hold.

When the gate finally appeared on the horizon, Q thought for a moment it was a mirage. The intricate iron archway stood tall and imposing, its twisting vines and delicate patterns gleaming faintly in the fading light. Beyond it, shadows stretched long across the path, and in the distance, grand spires rose against the dusky sky.

Her heart swelled with a mixture of relief and trepidation. This was it. It had to be.

She stumbled forward, her hands reaching out to touch the cool iron. The gate felt solid under her palms, grounding her, though the towering structure seemed to mock her smallness.

"I made it," she whispered, her voice cracked and dry. "Oh gosh, I did!" 

But the gate was locked.

Q's heart sank. Her fingers tightened around the bars as she glanced around, searching for anyone—anything—that might help. There was nothing but the distant hum of crickets and the faint rustle of wind through the trees. The place felt empty, unreachable.

Determined, she set the box of letters down carefully at her feet and gripped the bars. Her arms trembled as she pulled herself up, her bare feet finding footholds in the ironwork. The climb was slow, her muscles screaming in protest, but she pushed on.

She was halfway up when a voice rang out, sharp and commanding, cutting through the quiet like a blade.

"And what do you think you're doing?"