Chapter 3 Nory
NORY
The sun dips closer to the horizon, bathing my front room in orange light.
Glancing at the clock, I see it is well past six o’clock in the evening. My mother converted the front portion of our house into a workstation soon after I started walking. It was easier for her to keep an eye on her sewing and her curious toddler if we were both confined to a single room.
Today had been particularly grueling. Four pairs of men’s hunting trousers needed their inner seams redone.
Two corsets needed to be reboned and their lacings replaced.
Skirt hems, jackets with loose buttons, and disintegrating undergarments all found their way to me, and I tended to each one.
My back aches as it always does after a particularly long day.
My fingers feel tight after having spent the day clutching onto my small needle—a dull throb pounds behind my eyes.
Looking at the small stack of gold I made today for these orders, I wonder once more if this is all worth it.
Being the only seamstress in town means there’s always business, but the work is becoming too much for one person.
After the expense of my mother’s passing, I don’t have enough to employ another seamstress.
The urge to shut my door and close shop is never more enticing than on days like today.
Part of me was grateful for the strenuous workload. It easily kept my mind off last night's events. However, now that my final customer has come to collect her things from me, knowing I will be alone makes unease trail icy fingers down my spine.
Collecting the freshly repaired stack of men’s trousers, I hand them over to Isabelle.
She smiles gratefully. While she may only be a few years older than me, she’s been looking a bit worse for wear each time she comes to visit.
Her once-bright golden hair has dulled to dishwater brown.
The lines around her eyes and mouth have deepened.
The squeals of her children echo in from the porch. With three of them all under ten and at only twenty-seven, Isabelle must have her hands full. There is tiredness in her eyes, but something else too—a skittishness, one that replaced the good-natured young woman she used to be.
I know exactly who put that fear into her.
“Thank you, Nory,” she says. “You always do such a wonderful job. Butch is always tearing holes in his pants. No better than a child, I say.”
Even as she tries to laugh, there's a tightness to it. I don’t miss how her eyes dart behind her as if her husband could have overheard her jibe.
“From all the hunting, yes?”
“Butch is a gifted hunter,” Isabelle murmurs. “We are blessed that he has found such fortune in the forest.”
I glance down at the state of her own clothes—the fraying at the top of her dress and the disastrous state of her soiled hem. Raising a brow, I nod at her.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to fix your clothing? Or the children’s?”
She comes to me nearly once a week, always in the same drab garments. The children are no better with their hole-ridden boots and pants two sizes too small.
Isabelle’s lips turn down, a sad smile overtaking her face.
“Quite sure. I only have enough coins to pay for Butch.”
I open my mouth, wanting so badly to tell her what everyone in town thinks of her husband.
He is a miser. Squirreling away the large sums of gold he makes from each of his plentiful hunts, using those coins to satisfy himself in deplorable ways.
Gambling, drinking, adultery—there isn’t a sin her husband hasn’t partaken in.
Meanwhile, Isabelle toils away as a maid in some of the wealthier families’ homes.
The children live on her meager salary while their father spends his gold as he pleases.
He cares little for his children—even less so for his wife.
There is no way Isabelle is ignorant of the sordid stories told about her husband.
The man disgusts me, but he is far from the only horrible one in this town.
That is why I hold my tongue. What good would it be to tell Isabelle what I thought?
I would hate for her to think I was another gossip who talked about her misfortunes behind her back.
She is a kind woman who’s been through enough.
Silence stretches between us for a moment, both clearly wanting to say more but deciding it is unwise.
Reaching into her pocket, she grips a small coin purse and holds it towards me.
At the motion, the worn sleeve of her dress pulls back, revealing a reddish purple bruise.
The unsightly mark encases her entire wrist.
I gasp, my eyes widening as they meet hers. Isabelle’s hand begins to tremble, and unshed tears pool in her brown eyes. Glancing over her shoulder, she once again confirms that Butch has not magically appeared at my threshold.
“He’s been so awful lately,” Isabelle whispers. “More awful than ever before. His drinking is worse. It used to be his yelling we would have to endure, but now…”
A shiver causes her whole frail body to convulse.
“I’m worried he’ll start hurting the children. I can endure it, but them—I could not live with myself if they bore the brunt of his anger. My youngest is barely two, I don’t want him raised in fear.”
“Leave him,” I say. “Surely there is someone who would take you in.”
Isabelle’s small smile returns as tears fall down her cheeks.
“There is nowhere for us to go. Despite keeping his money from us, he does provide us with food and shelter. I could never support three children on my own. We would surely perish without him.” A bitter laugh escapes her.
“The only way we’d ever be free of him was if he died, but I’m not naive enough to hope for a hunting accident to save us. ”
I open my mouth to respond, but Isabelle drops the sack of coins on my work table with a thud.
“Thank you again, Nory. Don’t worry about us, we will make it through. Somehow, we always find a way.”
Without another word, Isbaelle scoops up her husband’s clothes and turns to leave.
Even though she told me not to, I can’t help but worry about her, especially as I watch her collect her three children who have been waiting on the stoop.
They are all dressed poorly, a far cry from the sturdy garments I fixed for their father.
The eldest is a girl of nearly eight. Her golden hair is hidden beneath a white cap.
Taking each of her younger brother’s hands, she glances over her shoulder, and our eyes meet through the window.
Her brown irises are wide and beseeching. While they may be fed and have a place to sleep at night, what kind of life are they truly living? One ruled by fear at the hands of their drunkard father. Time only makes men like him worse.
The Snowlands encourage the worst amongst us to give in to their depraved natures. Their dark souls fester until all those around them are forced to suffer. If only there were something I could do to help them—if only there were someone who could stop men like Butch from hurting their families.
Lord Gunnar was meant to keep order, but he is just as rotten as the rest of the men here. Or was. Was. Someone saved me from my horrible fate.
An idea sparks—a wild and forbidden idea, but once it is there, I cannot unthink it. Glancing across the front yard, the last rays of the evening sun paint the horizon in purples and pinks. If that creature had any sense, he would’ve left town by now, but if he hasn’t…there’s still a chance.
My mother would be turning in her grave if she knew what I planned to do.
She was a spiritual woman in many ways—ways the people in this town didn’t understand.
In her vast knowledge of herbal remedies and protection charms, she taught me how to do something out of caution.
Only in the most desperate of situations was I meant to perform this ritual.
The situation seemed desperate to me, and there was no time to waste. The light was fading fast, and I had a monster to summon.
Snatching up my small bag of coins, I collect my cloak and stare out into the darkening night.
“What do I have to lose?”
What I have to lose turns out to be a handful of coins and a few drops of my blood.
I pray the wound won’t get infected as I stow my danger and watch the crimson pour from my hand and dot the top of the coins piled atop my mother’s grave. With her nearby, I feel protected. Even if I can practically hear her screaming from the beyond at how reckless I’m being.
There’s no turning back now. With a deep breath, I close my eyes and recite the words taught to me by my mother.
“Come to me, he who dwells amongst the living. Come to me, he who was born amongst the dead. Come to me, he who will shepherd me at my end.”
Silence follows after my last word. Even the breeze seems to cease blowing. A fresh dusting of snow coats the sparse grass beneath my feet. My breathing is the only sound in this still graveyard.
Then an icy wind blows over me, nearly knocking me to the ground.
I manage to withstand it somehow. My heart hammers painfully in my chest. Even without opening my eyes, I know I am no longer alone.
His presence overwhelms me. My instincts to run flood my body, but I remain still.
This is why I came here—to strike a deal with a demon.
Peeling open my eyes, I am greeted by the gruesome sight from the night before. Glowing eyes stare at me from deep inside his skull. His hood is up, protecting his waxy skin from the flurries in the air. The long cloak is sprawled out behind him like spilled ink.
“I must admit,” he says, voice like a death rattle. “It’s been an age since someone has summoned me.”
His eyes narrow, the bluish glow inside them intensifying.
“You must be even more foolish than I thought.”