my mother with a deep and tremendous sadness behind those eyes, as much as she may try to hide it from us. She refuses to talk about that day, and Alice, poor Alice, my little sister. She would never know my father and likewise he had never even known she was on her way.

Randall sits slumped against the wall in the shadows, close enough that he can get between myself and the boy in time should he need to, eyelids slowly descending until he jolts awake and the process starts again. At this moment he is a guard, desperately trying not to fall asleep at his post. He has been the closest thing to a fatherly figure in our lives, and whilst I know he loves us dearly, there is always a sense that he is there for us out of a sense of duty. A commitment born from guilt at the passing of his childhood friend.

I stare at the straw ceiling above me for what seems like hours. My mind is an unrelenting blur of activity, and yet, despite having nothing but a dying boy and the fantasies of a life without a departed parent to keep me company, I slowly drift into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER TWO

A couple of days later the boy seems to be holding steady, the various ointments from my mum and Ida appear to have worked their magic. The bruises are fading slowly and the deep cuts already looking several weeks old, though serious scarring may be inevitable. He has continued to live at our hut and whilst he is more than welcome to our floorspace, the lack of trust from the village people has resulted in constant surveillance.

He is never allowed to be alone, just to be safe, and so our hut has turned into a sort of inn, a host to a slightly different party as each evening passes. The continued precautions are largely a result of the boy’s uninterrupted silence. Despite having visits from Arthur daily, he hasn’t uttered a single word and so of course we haven’t been provided with any explanation or reasons to trust him.

I am wary of the boy. Too often have I caught sly glances in my direction as he studies the marks on my face. I appreciate their oddness and am all too familiar with such treatment, but the boy’s consistent and regular looks are beginning to border on obsession.

He understands us easy enough, with no clear language barrier he never causes any hassle and does whatever is instructed of him. Except speak. Even my mother is unable to get anything out of him, the woman who had brought him back from the brink of death and whom he appropriately treats with a kind of reverence. He has spent his time helping her out with the little things whenever he spots anything, an attitude that has led to several remarks about my often less helpful demeanour.

Robyn has barely left our home since his arrival. She is fascinated by him, even if he could talk, I would be surprised if he could fit a word in edgewise. She is constantly trying to get anything out of him, and her theories of his origins grow wilder with each hour. She has even named him, seeing as he is either unwilling or unable to provide one himself.

“How about Guy?” She grins one particularly eventless afternoon. Whilst her idea of a joke, and a particularly terrible one at that, the name nevertheless stuck and was soon passed around Avlym’s inhabitants.

It has all become too much for my poor mum. With the busyness of her already small home mixed with the caring for the boy and my ever-demanding little sister, it’s a wonder she managed to hold out as long as she did. It therefore comes as no surprise when she ambushes Arthur outside of the hut after his most recent visit.

“Figure out what to do with him already! Art, you need to either kick him out or let him go, I will not have my home torn upside down for a day longer.”

“What would you have me to Dana? The boy hasn’t said a word! He could be from the colony for all we know. Or what if he’s a spy? Maybe one of the other villages have broken the treaty? Tarrin’s got a new leader, or I hear there’s unrest in Willsden, what if he’s with either of them!”

This last worry was not much of a threat. There is one main rule within Avlym and the surrounding village communities: they can do whatever they want so long as no village damages another. The colony is the enemy and it would make them all too happy for us to butcher each other. I wouldn’t put it past them to spectate our theoretical battles and revel in the bloodshed for their own entertainment. After all, it is considerably easier to maintain your control if your potential usurpers are fighting amongst themselves. They would step in before it went too far though. All the villages paid quota to the colony, and it wouldn’t do to let a war get in the way of their incoming supplies. The villages therefore live side by side, with little contact apart from trading. If a spy belonging to one was found in another, all other communities would likely cut ties with them, and without their trade and the colony continuing to knock on their door, it’s unlikely that they would be able to stay afloat.

“Oh, come of it they would’ve sent a man, not a bloodied boy! That’s another thing – why would they hurt their own spy! Look, so what if he doesn’t want to talk, he hasn’t tried anything!”

“Yet.”

“Just make your mind up and get everyone out of my house.”

Arthur had known better than to push my mother, and sure enough, before night falls, he relieves a bored and tired Randall of his post. He had, as always, been more than willing

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