Soraya

Soraya peered cautiously around the heavy timber doorframe. Thick carpet along the hall muffled the conversation raging between her father and the newly arrived stranger below. Another stranger, another row. He’d been rougher looking than the others, with a heavily bandaged shoulder. She shrugged. Her father’s battles were not her concern, not any more.

Lamps were twinkling in their sconces on either side, just as they should. She was alone, for now, on this level of the house. She gathered her shift in one hand and crept silently across to the narrow alcove opposite her room. The lush carpet did not extend to the stone of the servant stairs and winter seeped through the thin soles of her slippers. Anticipation pricked her scalp as she crept down the spiralling slabs.

She sighed on a quiet breath as she reached the low wooden door that let out into her mother’s private garden. No one except the gardener ever ventured here. Not even Mother. Skirting the rose beds, she kept between the wall and a row of budding standards, out of sight of the windows of the main hall.

At the far end of the garden, the proud, wrought-iron gate topped with her father’s crest was already open. From there it was a short skip along the timber-flagged path through the olives and into the warm fug of the household stables. Familiar soft wickers greeted her as she made her way along the row to the last of the stalls, struggling to peel a sticky peppermint from her pocket as she went. She’d snaffled it from the tea tray earlier, behind Mother’s back, dimpling as Mother’s maid caught her with a wink. She slid open the stall door and kissed Melody on the nose as she offered up the treat, standing on tiptoes to whisper into the neatly pricked ears.

Chosen by her father, Melody was a finely-bred palfrey, bay, just an elegant touch of white, not too much, eminently suitable for the daughter of the wealthiest merchant in Hightown. Melody was freedom. Freedom from Mother’s stuffy drawing-room and interminable afternoon teas. Afternoons where Soraya was supposed to impress family associates with a demure countenance and polite conversation. Perhaps catch the eye of a rich dame with an eligible son. Well, that’s at an end now, she thought. Father had found a buyer for her, traded her like one of his precious black opals. She shuddered and thrust the unwelcome recollection to the back of her mind.

In the poorly-lit back corner of the stall, Soraya pushed the straw off the top of a rough wooden box and retrieved a pair of leather boots, a plain brown riding habit, and an oversized felt hat. She dressed quickly, pulling her favourite cardigan tight about her narrow frame and tying it firmly. Her parents draped her with fashionable cloaks and tailored coats, but she much preferred this cardigan, painstakingly knitted as an expression of love from her eccentric grandmother. She’d passed away last year. Soraya bit down on her lip at the memory.

It was just on dusk as she left the stable, trotting quickly down the street and around the corner. She’d timed her escape well. The servants were at dinner, her father either drinking whisky or throwing it at his visitor, her hateful brother Reynald was with his tutor, and Mother was tormenting maids while she dressed for the evening.

Melody tossed her black mane, glossed with silver in the moonlight, and snorted as Soraya pulled her up in the town’s second street. It was lined with boutique specialty stores and frequented in daylight hours by the wives of Hightown’s elite, but was now sliding towards sleep as its silk-clad patrons pattered away to other entertainments. She tied Melody to a rail in front of the chocolatier and pushed open the ornate, brass door. A bell chimed as she entered. She inhaled deeply, savouring the rich chocolatey aromas, mingling today with the darkly sweet tones of aniseed.

“Uncle,” she called out. A pair of eyebrows appeared in the doorway, followed closely by a beaming smile and a rounded belly. “Soraya, sweetheart!” He peered behind her, then chuckled, “fugitive again, eh? She was furious last time, you know. Still hasn’t forgiven me for not returning you to her in chains.”

Soraya’s mouth twisted as he enveloped her in a hug. “I have to visit Breena. Mother won’t let me – she doesn’t know, of course. You won’t tell, will you?” She looked up at him anxiously. "I need to see her, to say goodbye properly, to explain.” A hint of gloom crept into her voice. “I’ll so miss Rynda. I will see you again, won’t I?” she asked, blinking away a traitorous tick in the corner of her eye.

Mr Cosy’s kindly smile deepened. “Of course, my dear. Ester’s not that far, and you’ll have your new husband wrapped around your finger in no time. I’m certain of that.” He looked out into the street, concern wrinkling his brow. “It’s quite dark, though I can see the moon will be bright for a while. Are you sure you’ll be safe?” He paused, “you won’t ride back tonight, eh?”

“I plan to win an invitation to stay with a gift of your famous dark ginger stars – Breena loves them so!” Mr Cosy puffed out his chest. “Yes indeed, as does every right-thinking lady in Rynda.”

Soraya twitched in eagerness to be back on the moonlit road as he donned immaculate white gloves to pack the stars carefully between sheets of paper. “So they don’t break bouncing around on your pony,” he said with a twinkle.

“We don’t bounce!” she exclaimed, then laughed. “You tease. You know Melody glides like a bird – her feet barely brush the ground!”

“Yes, yes, now off you go, before your mother catches you here.” He spoke in jest, but Soraya sensed a faint uneasiness and noticed him glance out the window into the street.

She slipped the neat package into the pocket of her cardigan and leaned in to kiss a plump, red-veined cheek, avoiding the magnificent, overhanging brow. She didn’t see her Uncle’s smile fall into a frown as the door swung closed behind her.

The moon was bright like a promise as the streets of Hightown grew dim in her wake. At the top of the hill she looked back over her shoulder at the sprawling dark of the town, pinpricks of light in neat rows. Then turned left onto the main Rynda Way and released the dancing mare.

Melody shot like an arrow from a bow and Soraya whooped with exhilaration and release. The ribbon of pale limestone glowed and blurred beneath the mares flashing hooves. A disjointed moonshadow raced them along the opposite verge.

The Night-Owl screeched her claim and launched, swooping low over the girl and horse. Soraya felt the downdraught of strong wings on her forehead and smiled. Her talisman. The three of them flew side by side along the moon-lit road. Light spilled in long streaks from the unshuttered windows of isolated farmhouses. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. And then the owl was gone. Her gift imparted.

The cold knot in Soraya’s breast thawed and blossomed. There was no wisdom in clinging to a life that did not love. She must accept the journey laid before her.

But tonight, her last as a child. She would spend it her way.