Chapter 1
The Flies are feasting.
A far-off scream bursts out, and then I hear the frenzied buzz descend upon it in a violent crescendo. I can’t help but imagine the person being swarmed to death out there. Can’t help but wonder who it might be.
After a few more seconds, the scream goes silent. The buzzing cacophony fades.
Another life lost to the Flies.
I swipe at my fringe against my sweaty forehead and take in a steadying breath. The air clings with mildew, the musty scent of wet pulp and old linen crammed in here like waterlogged straw.
“That’ll be another pile of bones picked clean on the street,” my aunt mutters.
She’s right. There will be little left of that person.
Behind me, the wooden waterwheel on the wall outside groans loudly as it sloshes through the river. The sound is only outdone by the steady drone of insects.
Aunt Lenna dunks her mould into the vat, swishing it gently to spread the fibers. She lifts it up, letting it drip before flipping the mould onto the wool cloth to absorb the rest of the water.
Standing over the trough, I stretch my cramping fingers on the hand crank, the wooden gears creaking as I adjust the beater roll and check the sluice gates for the water flow. The waterwheel does a lot of the hard work, but my muscles still burn every day.
Making paper isn’t for the weak.
But neither is surviving the Plagues.
And that’s what we do in Brekon. We survive.
“Those are set to dry,” Aunt Lenna says as she finishes stacking the moulds. Her broad shoulders and muscled arms are a credit to her work, and while she often looks stern with her strong square jaw, beneath that stony exterior lies the softest heart. “Let’s call it a day.”
“You go on ahead of me. I want to sort through the scraps and toss them into the vat so they can start to soak.”
She frowns, lines digging in deep.
“I’ll be done soon, I promise.”
“Alright,” she relents. “But don’t be too long, Esti. And wrap up—tightly.”
I give her a smile as she walks by and pats me on the shoulder. “I will.”
The mill’s once-open windows are all boarded up, every crack stuffed with cloth or glue strips, making it hard to see in such dim lighting. We used to be able to have fresh air and sunlight in here all day long, but we haven’t had that luxury in months.
Not since this Plague descended.
Overnight, Flies belched out of thin air, unleashing upon Hamelyn. They decimated our city’s crops, killed our livestock, swarmed people enough to eat them through, and the damn things lay eggs everywhere.
It’s been five months, and we’re still dealing with them without an end in sight.
That’s what happens with most of the Plagues that hit our city, except the rare times our Govern gets someone to come help.
Usually, we just have to wait them out. But after five months of this, our daily life has become grueling, our morale slipping further and further.
This Plague has lasted longer than any other we’ve endured.
It’s not as if we can leave either. Our world of Brekon has strict laws. Once a walled city or burg is Plagued, the gates must be sealed to staunch the spread. Only our ruling Govern has the authority to open them again.
“You be careful too,” I tell Aunt Lenna. “The Flies will be in an uproar now.”
They always are, after a fresh kill.
“Don’t you worry about me. They don’t want a bite of this,” she says, gesturing to herself. “I’m far too bitter.”
I smile wryly, watching as she pulls on our version of armor. Thick gloves on her hands, pants tucked into boots, a swath of cloth wrapped around her face and stuffed into the collar of her shirt. Not a bit of skin can be exposed, or else the Flies will attack the flesh.
Just like whoever out there screamed their last breath.
If enough of them are swarmed, they can consume someone from skin to bone in a matter of minutes—even seconds. It’s a battle every day to keep buildings clear. To keep from being bitten raw.
To not succumb to the sickness that’s infected our world.
Aunt Lenna picks up a bottle of bittermint on the open shelf and spritzes it all over her, coughing as she puts it back.
She’s convinced it helps repel them, but I think all it does is make her nose sting.
“See? Doubt they’ll pay me any attention,” she tells me, her lavender eyes now hidden behind the cloth that covers her face.
“They’ll be drawn to your sweet personality instead, I’m sure.”
She snorts. “That’ll be you. I’m just a grouchy old woman with bad knees. They won’t bother.”
Once she’s covered, I follow her to the door. “Hurry home,” she says sternly, and then she slips out as fast as she can, but a dozen or so Flies manage to get in anyway.
I stuff the cloth back into the gaps of the door and then grab the swatter and strike them dead, one after another. Their black, rounded bodies fall to the floor around me, amber wings twitching.
We’ve already had to deal with them laying eggs inside the vat. It took a whole week to clear them out once they hatched. I really don’t want to go through that again.
With Aunt Lenna gone, I focus on finishing up what I need to before it gets too late. Our city is strict about curfew, at least for me.
Especially for me.
I go to the corner where a pile of old linens awaits. The good thing about living in a big city is we have plenty of people we can collect from. The more threadbare the fabric, the better.
Kneeling down, I rip up strips of cloth, choosing the most tattered and worn.
With a bundle of chosen scraps, I head to the vat and dump them in.
The water is murky, other fabric already inside, disintegrating in the soak.
I take the dowel and dunk the linens, stirring them around before leaving everything to set.
It looks unappealing and smells to high heaven, but after this, those linens will be ready to be mashed into a pulp, and my aunt will make it into the prettiest sheets of paper in the entire city, sometimes in varying shades of color when we dye them.
When the vat is full, I lift the heavy paper presses until they’re neatly stacked, my back groaning from the effort. Then I sweep up all the soaked rushes on the floor, scooping them onto the other end of the mill where they can dry and I can reuse them again tomorrow.
With that done, I close the sluice gate, cutting off the flow of water from the outside waterwheel, and turn out the lanterns.
My muscles are tired, my hands aching, tunic damp from the sodden labor.
But despite the hard work, I feel good. I like knowing I’ve been productive.
And since this paper mill is my aunt’s pride and joy, I feel pride and joy in helping her run it.
This place is like my second home. Here, I can simply be.
There’s no one to give me glares or cast me in judgment.
I reach up and re-secure my veillet, making sure it’s tied snugly over my head and tucked into the knot at the nape of my neck, bunching up my long hair with it. The simple linen hair veil is nothing like the fancy ones the nobles wear, but it holds up to a hard day’s work.
And more importantly, it covers my horns.
They’re not large, only a few inches long and curved slightly, positioned at the top front of my head. They’re stubby, the tips blunted, a lot like the budding horns on a baby goat, and they’re as black as my hair.
They wouldn’t be so noticeable if it weren’t for the glittering effect they have when they catch the light—the same subtle sparkle that runs throughout the length of my hair, like starlight caught in the strands.
I’m lucky that veillets are so fashionable.
From a peg on the wall beside the door, I grab a length of sheer fabric and tuck it into my collar, before draping the rest up over my face and securing it to my veillet until my neck and head are fully covered.
It’s sheer enough that I can see through, but thick enough to keep the Flies from crawling into my eyes and battering my ears and mouth.
That wouldn’t be pleasant.
I note the faintest pale luster on my fingernails before I shove my gloves onto my hands.
Using the extra strips of fabric, I wrap the ends of my long sleeves to tie over my gloves, and do the exact same thing to the tops of my boots and the hem of my pants.
I cinch every gap tight so that the Flies can’t worm their way in.
When I pull open the mill door, I’m met with a rush of fresh air.
And thousands of Flies.
Wonderful.
I quickly slam it closed and crouch down, yanking at the fabric at the sill and jamb, trying to stuff all the vulnerable spots. There will probably be some Flies that manage to sneak inside, but hopefully we can clear them out in the morning without too much hassle.
Getting to my feet, I turn and start to make the trek back to the main part of the city.
Flies zip around in frantic hostility, small in size but so many in number that they clog the air like shredded thunderclouds.
The dirt path I walk along used to be a meadow before it was eaten up.
Now, the ground stretches like a layer of bumpy skin while the Flies pester the water that arcs behind me.
Erews River no longer sparkles. It should be full of boats and swimmers, people on the banks doing their washing or collecting water or splashing playfully.
But there’s no one out there now, save for a handful of swathed fishermen braving the swarms as they try to pull up some trout and secure them in jars before they’re consumed.
With most of our livestock gone and our farmland decimated, our city has been eating a lot of fish. Yet even as big as our river is, the fish supply won’t last forever. Already, it’s dwindling. Prices getting higher. Demand getting desperate.
My stomach cramps with hunger.
I walk up the shallow hillside, away from the water, while Flies batter against my clothing. Overhead, the endless pump of core power leaks into the sky like a bloodied smear that churns and roils.