The house smelled of old wood and faint mildew, its walls lined with mismatched planks that let in more drafts than they kept out. The small kitchen table creaked under the weight of the clay pitcher and tin cups her mother had set out with trembling hands. There was nothing to offer but water drawn fresh from the well that morning, and even that seemed too plain for someone like Professor Ligarius.
Yet, he accepted the cup with a small nod, his long fingers wrapping around the tin as if it held the finest wine.
Q stood awkwardly by the doorway, her back pressed against the peeling frame. She felt out of place in her own home, like she didn't belong here anymore with her dirt-streaked boots and her sweat-dampened shirt sticking to her back. The silence stretched, thick and uneasy, broken only by the sound of the wind rattling the loose shutters.
Her mother perched on the edge of a chair, her movements stiff, her apron still damp from the milking she'd rushed to finish. She kept her eyes on Ligarius, her hands folded in her lap, though her fingers twitched like she was itching to wring something.
"So," her mother began, her voice careful, the kind of tone she used when bartering for seed in the market. "This… opportunity. What does it mean for her, exactly?"
Professor Ligarius set his cup down, the soft clink sounding unnaturally loud in the small room. He leaned back slightly, his posture still straight as a spear, his gaze steady.
"It means she will have a chance to grow beyond the limits of this place. To learn skills that will allow her to shape her own future. To serve in a role of distinction, should she prove capable."
Her mother hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line as she turned those words over in her mind.
"That's all well and good, sir," she said, her tone shifting, edged with something sharper. "But what about us? The farm doesn't run itself. We're already short on hands as it is, and with her gone…"
She trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid, though her meaning was clear.
Less help meant less work done, less food on the table.
Q's stomach sank. She could already tell where her mother was heading, the conversation winding toward something sharp and embarrassing. Her mother's voice gained a hesitant sort of confidence as she leaned forward, elbows resting on the edge of the table.
"It's not that we don't want better for her. But you've got to understand, sir, there's a cost to it, for folks like us."
"Ma," Q started, stepping forward, the words spilling out before she could think better of it. "You don't—"
Her mother shot her a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
"Hush, Queenie," she snapped. "I'm talkin'."
The shame burned hot and fast in Q's chest, twisting into something bitter as she shrank back. Her fingers balled into fists at her sides, the urge to yell at her mother battling with the embarrassment of speaking out in front of Professor Ligarius. She could barely stand to look at him, terrified of what expression might be on his face now.
But before her mother could press further, her father cleared his throat. It was a quiet sound, but in the charged air of the kitchen, it landed like a thunderclap. Both Q and her mother turned toward him, startled.
"What're you coughin' for?" her mother snapped, her eyes narrowing. "I'm negotiatin', can't you see?"
Her father didn't respond right away. Instead, he stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate. His work-worn hands rested on the edge of the table as he looked at Ligarius, his expression serious but lacking the desperate edge his wife carried. Then, in a move so sudden it startled Q, he reached out and pushed her mother's head downward into a bow. She sputtered, her indignation rising, but her protests were cut short as he followed suit, bowing deeply himself.
"Sir," her father said, his voice gravelly and low, but steady. "We ain't got much, and we sure as hell can't offer you what you deserve for this chance you're givin' her. But we'll never forget it, not as long as we live. If you're sayin' she's got a future beyond what she's got here, then take her."
Her mother jerked upright, her eyes flashing with anger as she turned on him.
"You fool! Don't you see what I was trying to—"
"Enough," her father said firmly, cutting her off with a glance. "We ain't sellin' her like a heifer at market. She's worth more than that."
He straightened, his gaze locking with Ligarius's.
"You said she's got a chance. Well, then, you've got my blessing."
Q stared at him, her throat tightening, a strange mix of gratitude and guilt swirling in her chest. She didn't know what to say, didn't know if she could say anything at all. Her father, the man who barely spoke a word most days, had just given her something she hadn't even dared to hope for.
Professor Ligarius inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable but solemn.
"I will ensure she makes the most of it."
Her mother said nothing, her lips pressed into a thin, furious line, but she didn't argue further. Instead, she turned away, muttering something under her breath as she busied herself with the pitcher on the table.
Q swallowed hard, her hands trembling at her sides. She caught her father's gaze for just a moment, and he nodded at her, a small, silent gesture that said everything he couldn't put into words.
"Queenie," he said, his voice gruff, though it carried an unusual softness underneath. "Go on to your room. Pack your things. Let us finish talkin' with the professor."
Her gaze darted from her father's face to Professor Ligarius's calm, inscrutable expression, then to her mother, who still sat stiff and fuming, her hands clenching and unclenching in her lap. For a moment, Q hesitated, her feet planted firmly on the worn floorboards. She wanted to argue, to say she should stay and hear it all—every word, every decision that shaped her future.
But her father's steady look stopped her short.
"Go on, girl." he repeated, quieter this time but no less firm.
She swallowed hard, nodding once before turning on her heel. Her steps felt heavy as she made her way to her room, the door creaking loudly on its hinges when she pushed it open. She didn't bother to close it all the way, leaving it cracked just enough to hear the low murmur of voices that picked up again in the kitchen.
Inside, the small room she had called her own for as long as she could remember seemed even smaller now. The walls were bare save for a few scratches from where her cot had been dragged around over the years. The single shelf near the window held the entirety of her belongings—a couple of threadbare dresses, a patched scarf her mother had made when she was little, and a chipped ceramic beetle her father had found and given her one winter when she couldn't stop crying. That was it. That was all of her.
Her heart pounded in her chest as she moved to the shelf, her hands trembling as she pulled down what little she owned. She hadn't expected it to happen this fast, hadn't thought leaving would feel so close, so real. The weight of it pressed against her ribs, sharp and unrelenting. A chance at something better, something brighter, had practically fallen into her lap, and she wasn't stupid enough to refuse. It would be bad luck to say no to a blessing like this—bad luck, plain and simple.
She shoved the dresses into a small, frayed bag, the scarf following after. The ceramic beetle she hesitated over, her fingers tracing its rough edges, before wrapping it carefully in a scrap of cloth and tucking it inside. Packing was done in minutes; it wasn't like there was much to pack. Her life here, small and cramped as it was, fit easily into her hands.
Taking a deep breath, Q slung the bag over her shoulder and stepped out into the hall. She could hear the faint murmur of conversation from the kitchen, her mother's voice occasionally rising in irritation before falling silent again. When she reached the doorway, she stopped, her gaze drifting to her mother, who now sat slumped in one of the rickety chairs, her chin resting on her hand. She muttered under her breath, her eyes fixed on some distant point on the floor, but she didn't bother to look up as Q passed.
Her father stood by the table, the letter from Professor Ligarius clutched in one hand. He saw her before she could say anything, his gaze softening in a way that made her chest ache. Slowly, he limped toward her, his steps uneven but steady. When he reached her, he stopped, the letter still held tightly in his rough, calloused hand.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he reached out and ruffled her hair, his touch awkward and gentle, as though he didn't quite know how to do it right. He didn't look at her, his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder.
"Do good," he said finally, his voice low and thick. "And be good. You hear me?"
Q nodded, her throat too tight to form words. She blinked rapidly, willing herself not to cry. She hadn't cried when the neighbors whispered, hadn't cried when her mother glared at her like she was more burden than blessing, and she wasn't going to cry now.
Her father leaned closer then, his voice dropping to a whisper only she could hear.
"Once you get your feet under you—once you can stand on your own—don't come back here, Queenie. You're better off. You're… meant for more."
She opened her mouth to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but the look in his eyes stopped her cold. There was no anger there, no bitterness. Just a quiet, unshakable conviction that made her knees feel weak.
"I will," she whispered back, her voice barely audible. "I'll do good."
Her father straightened, clearing his throat as he glanced back toward the kitchen. He didn't say anything else, but the slight nod he gave her was enough. It was a goodbye in its own way, final and bittersweet.
With her bag slung tight over her shoulder and her heart threatening to crack wide open, Q turned and walked out the door, and not once did she look back.