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Her late father had been a craftsman living in the better part of Ombra, earning enough from his job to keep some maids and a cook. He'd had a taste for the finer things, such as rich wines and good (and expensive) company. If rumors were to be trusted, he had also had contacts among the highborn rulers nearby.
That, at least, was what Mortola had heard growing up. She knew nothing about finer things. Her mother often reminded her of that.
"Look at you! You are as thin as a stick and without forms. Look at your hands! Rough they are, stubby and red. Nothing befitting other work than carrying flour and buckets of water. And your face- that is a face nobody will love. No nobleman will ever look twice at you, be certain of that," she would say and curse both Mortola and her father.
It was true, Mortola knew she wasn't a beauty. Whenever she got water from the well she would look at her reflection in the water and every time she would note how spiteful her small eyes were. Paired with her hooked nose and her unkempt black hair, they made her resemble the birds that flocked around the gallows outside the city gates. When people began calling her the Magpie it stung at first, but Mortola made sure they never saw her cry.
Only when she was alone in her bed at night did she cave in to her despair. The rest of the time she made plans to make them pay. She carried flour and water and sugar for coins till her shoulders hurt, listening to people whispering behind her back. More and more often she could feel something grow hot and dark inside her.
They all needed to pay for what they had done.
Despite her mother's dark predicitons Mortola did find herself a nobleman.
His name was Renzo and he was a haughty aristocrat whose father was a close mate to The Laughing Prince.
He had a knack for wandering about in Ombra collecting favours from the unfortunate. Despite his work as a spy, he was known for being able to free anybody from their trouble if they either had wealth to give him or information. One could never have guessed that from his boyish face, his pretty blue eyes and rosy cheeks.
Mortola knew though, when he pulled her over from her work and offered her a cup of tea. She agreed to it, still she never gave any thanks. When he talked to her she made sure to look at him directly with her head as high as her neck would allow. After a while it made Renzo laugh.
"You are a fun one," he teased.
His smile was charming, but his eyes were cold.
"Your deadbeat father used to sit by my father by the fire and share bread and wine before he wasted it all by poor investments. A real tosser that one. I wonder if the apple falls farther from the tree."
Mortola stuck her chin out.
"I waste nothing," she said, making her voice as hard as stone.
It surprised her to see his smile widen; he was amused. His smile reminded her more of a venomous animal whose bright colours were a warning of violence to come than actual joy, yet it did not frighten her. Mortola had grown up in the foulest quarter of the city where the alleyways were dark and dangerous. There was always things going bump in the night there and in the morning she would sometimes have to walk past the aftermath: bodies lying completely still in dark coagulated pools.
She knew violence. It was always with her, stalking her like a shadow. What did she care? Her life was nothing but toil. There was nothing anyone could take from her except her pride. Mortola was not afraid. She let Renzo smile and talk.
"You really are a special case," he said. "I believe I could search all of Ombra and not find a more prideful wench than you. I like it. Keep me company and I will adorn your head with pretty jewels and clothe you in smooth silk."
She knew he was lying. She could recognise the same scornful look in him that she always saw in her own reflection. There was no doubt a great deal of evil within him.
Even so, her back hurt. There were blisters on her feet from her ill fitting shoes. Living with him couldn't be any worse and maybe, just maybe, she could finally have the life she had always deserved.
A month went by and every aspect of her life had changed. She pranced about in a castle now, lurching behind cold stone walls, trying her best to seem like she belonged there as much as the rest.
Never had her back been straighter and never had she felt so undignified.
No jewels came, however Renzo did gift her some pretty brushes. She would have been thankful for those, had it not seemed to her a sign of her inadequacy- she could never tame her hair enough to shape it like the rest of the woman in the castle.
And the clothes he had promised her turned out to be red. The rich thick cloth hugged her and kept her warm like her former dress never could. Even so, this dress was just a maid's dress. She had felt her cheeks flush when she realised, yet what was she to do? Leave? She was much better off working here than carrying flour and it suited her looking down from her tall tower at the subjects below. They looked like insects tumbling around in the streets. Soon it seemed to her like all humans were.
He called upon her every night. By and by she stared really hating it, nevertheless she supposed that without him she would be back to living without prospects.
Some months later his father passed away and with him Renzo's connections grew weak. In the servant's quarters there was talk from the ones having helped empty his chambers. They claimed they didn't find as much as a coin.
It was around this time that Renzo finally starting to lose his youthful spirit. His face grew grey, his eyes red and he begun to see ghosts behind every corner. People thought he was becoming sick with grief, although Mortola suspected it was more likely that the family's wealth had run out like water on sand.
Useless man, Mortola thought whenever she saw her lover. She longed to distance herself. Unfortunately she quickly understood that Renzo was planning to drag her down into the dirt with him. He cried onto her shoulders one night. His tears fell hot on her skin, but could do nothing to warm her heart. He lay behind her and stroked her figure. She did her best not to twitch under his touch.
"Even if they throw us out of court, they can never ruin us. We can travel away, go somewhere new," he sobbed, almost hopeful and fully drunk.
Finally Mortola snapped. She twisted around, vicious as a snake.
"I am with child. He was supposed to be rich. He was supposed to grow up far from the rot of the streets and those filthy commoners."
Renzo stared at her. Slowly his face distorted in disgust. He got up from the bed in a swift motion.
"You- You thought I would have a bastard raised here? As if things are not bad enough."
Mortola froze, suddenly understanding what was happening. He was picking her dress up from the floor and throwing it to her.
"You know what you have to do: go down to the kitchen and make one of the wenches make you that brew till the thing is gone."
"No."
Renzo looked at her, shaken by her nerve to disobey him. He laughed as if the thought of her wanting the baby was ridiculous. "You will, of course."
Mortola sneered at him. "Or else?"
Renzo went white from rage. His fists were close to her now, even so she did not move from her position in bed. She did not want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her frightened.
He raged, tossed the pillows around till the room was covered in feathers. More than one time did he near her, though it seemed like he didn't have it in him to physically hurt her. Weak, she thought. If he could offer her nothing then there was no use in staying. She said as much.
A wicked smile bloomed on Renzo's face then.
"Fine. Keep the bastard. I will set you up with someone suitable for your rank to avoid a scandal on your behalf. Don't you worry, sweetheart."
He kept his word. Before a fortnite had passed a man came to collect her. He stood in the doorway of the servant's entrance, looking like he didn't know what to do with himself. He had a large frame, muscular arms, and thick brows. He had probably changed into his finer clothes to visit the castle, but his body still smelled of sweat and smoke and iron.
A blacksmith. Renzo had given her a blacksmith.