Chapter 3 Bitter Nights

The hearth was stone cold by nightfall. Daisy crouched in front of it, arms wrapped around her knees, breath fogging in the chill. The others were bundled under the threadbare blanket, already dozing, their faces gone soft and innocent in sleep. She wanted to give them more, to provide them with the world, and to help them feel safe, but instead, they were always hungry, cold, and miserable.

She stared at the stack of kindling, remembered how her mother used to snap her fingers and set the logs blazing, nothing to it. Daisy rolled her shoulders, flexed her fingers. The knack for fire was supposed to run in the blood. If it did, hers had taken a detour.

She pressed her palms together, concentrated until the world narrowed to a red pulse behind her eyes. She pictured the spark in her mind: tiny, perfect, just enough. Her temples throbbed, jaw locked tight. A faint tingle danced across her skin, nerves jangling. She held her breath, willed it to happen.

A few pale sparks leapt from her fingertips, sizzled on the damp wood, and died.

Daisy gritted her teeth. Again. She focused harder until her head swam and her hands shook. A thin trickle of blood slipped from her left nostril and spotted the unlit logs. Still nothing. Just pain. Shocking, bone gnawing pain. Useless, she wanted to scream at herself. So useless.

She swiped the blood away with her sleeve, fished the flint and steel from the satchel, and struck them together. Sparks flew, caught in the shredded newspaper, and the fire finally came to life. She watched the flames gutter and spit, feeling less like victory and more like a hollow truce. She and fire couldn’t come to any understanding like her mother did. How could magic come down a line with nothing worked for her? She had no idea who her father was, so it was pointless to search for what he might have given her. All she knew was the fire and fire, well, they never could see eye to eye.

The room filled with a sour, comforting heat. Daisy made the rounds: tucked in the smallest of her siblings, checked her mother’s fever, rinsed the soup pot. When she finished, she sat by the hearth and watched the shadows wriggle against the walls.

It was late when Maribel stirred. Her voice was thin, but clear. “Come here, pesty girl.”

Daisy knelt at her mother’s bedside. Maribel’s hands were like twigs, skin papery and cool.

“You’re strong,” Maribel said, brushing hair from Daisy’s eyes. “Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

Daisy tried to laugh, but it caught in her throat. “Can’t even light a fire without bleeding. Some strength.”

Maribel shook her head, coughing into her fist. “That’s not what matters.” Her fingers tightened around Daisy’s wrist, right where the odd birthmark curled like a faded spiral. “You know what this is?”

Daisy shrugged. “A mark. Had it since I was born, as you tell the tale.”

“It’s old,” Maribel whispered, voice trailing off. “Older than this city. Blood that remembers.” Her eyes flickered, sharp as ever. “Don’t forget, Pesty. You’re more than what they say.”

Then the fit hit her again, shaking her whole frame. Daisy pressed the rag to her mother’s mouth, counted the seconds until it passed. When it did, Maribel was limp, almost asleep. Perhaps unconscious. Daisy could hardly tell the difference these days. Her mother traveled between the two so often, and it wasn’t like they could get a doctor to see her.

Daisy sat back, spine to the wall, and stared at the rag. She did the math in her head: how many coins, how many days, how little time. Time was slipping away. She couldn’t see any hope, any answers.

Blood that remembers. The phrase gnawed at her, even as she closed her eyes and tried to forget. Forget that she was all that kept them alive.