South of Aetheros, Solmere
The clouds were big today. Fluffy patches of white on a canvas of blue .
They looked like faces at times,
Sometimes like Mr Fitzgerald snoring, or Mrs Fitzgerald screaming
Amy liked to watch. To see all the different faces it would form.
The birds were chirping, whispering secrets only they could hear. Something about the weather was just… perfect.
"Amy" the sound of her name pulled her out of her thoughts.
I'm on my way." She glanced away, wishing she could stretch the silence just a few minutes more. The raked gravel path stretched out toward the doors. The easy way, the sensible way. She veered right instead. Her legs took over, clearing the row of low tree stumps in quick, springy bounds, kicking off the side of a packed haystack just to feel the sudden rush of air before her feet hit the porch.
Mrs Fitzgerald looked angry, angrier than she sounded. But her face always looked angry. Her brows were always arched, complimenting the downward curve of the wrinkles on her pale white face. Amy had never once seen her smile, never.
"Yes"
She was knitting. The only time she didn't seem to complain. Mr Fitz was on the chair, fast asleep. Mrs Fitz said that was all he ever did
She kicked Amy a bag
"There's money in it, get the things we talked about.
Amy picked up the bag and left.
She liked stepping out of the house. It was the only time she could do whatever she wanted. Where she was free to skip, to frolic and to again admire the clouds.
There was something about them that pulled her. People just never looked at them long enough. Long enough that they told them stories. The same ones they told her.
The market was filled, much more people than there usually was.
It was a market day, Mrs Fitz said something about it earlier.
It just had to be that way. She picked up what she needed, paid all the people. She was as polite as possible— smiles made people happier.
As fast as possible too— Mrs Fitz hated it when she was late.
She got everything on the list, so she took the bag, as delicately as its weight and her scrawny hands would allow, and started walking back.
She got a distance away from the market before she sat down. She placed the bag beside her head, to block the sun. Mrs Fitz wouldn't like it if she knocked down the food in the bag. She laid down, back on green grass and looked to the sky.
There were birds this time, big, small. All the various kinds. And the clouds were faces.
She could see Mrs Fitz when she was angry—her clouds never smiled, Mr Fitz too, but sometimes he was grinning. She could see the faces of Rivolo. The man with whom she'd first had a home. Her chest clenched every time she thought of him, like a fist slowly closing around her ribs.
'Those are times gone'
Mr Fitz liked to say that every time Amy asked about him. Asked about how he was doing, if he ever said he wanted to see her. Amy never understood why he left her. Maybe it was something she did. He told her it wasn't, but she didn't quite believe him. She had to have done something.
Otherwise why would her own father abandon her?
She was staring in a different direction, when a bird dropped. It flapped its wings, coming to a halt, sitting on the bag. Amy tried to chase it away, but it only flew a few inches before it came back down. It was on the grass now, beside the bag. It gave an ugly caw. Sunlight hit its feathers, turning the deep black slick and oily, like grease on metal.
It wouldn't leave. So Amy decided to leave. She picked up her bag, but the bird dug its claw into a loaf of bread. Before flying away.
No.
Mrs Fitzgerald wouldn't like this.
She chased after the bird, it kept flying, the bread still in its grip. Luckily there were no ravines, or slopes in the path it took.
she wouldn't have been able to follow it. Eventually, the bird sat on a tree. It was high, very high.
She hated to climb. But she hated an angry Mrs Fitzgerald even more. She never yelled, but you could always tell.
So she gathered all her might, and pulled up her dress so it didn't get in the way, and then she climbed, and climbed. Then paused. And continued to climb again. She kept going, higher and higher. Until the bird was a branch away. She didn't look down, not once.
She pulled herself up the final branch and after she chased away the bird, she picked up the bread. She sat close to the tree, back against it, breathing heavy.
She kept her eyes on the tree. Fearing what she would see if she looked anywhere else. She turned her head, slowly, and slowly.
Then, she saw it.
High up here, the clouds were different. The air was cooler. And the faces were happier. New. Unique.
Her lips curled up. She wished she could stay here forever, and watch as the sun bled orange on the blue of the sky. So she could watch the parts of the world no one seemed to see.
When she finally got down the tree, it was almost dark.
She raced home and made it just in time. Mrs Fitzgerald had just woken up
"What are you doing? Get ready to cook"
"Why does this bread taste funny?" Mr Fitz asked when he started eating the bread from the bag.
"Maybe the woman baked it wrong"
He paused a bit
"Yeah, Maybe"