Fireborn

"Joy is the child born of fire

Let her be forged by flame

A queen among peasants

An angel among men is she..."

There once was a small child, raised in provision and intelligence. The child's parents loved her deeply, as she was not only a fond child, but their child. She was a pleasant girl with rosy cheeks, and hair the color of wheat in the noonday sun. Their only daughter, her young parents desired to give her the world in love and knowledge. They taught her to read when she was three summers old, and instilled kindness in her soul. Because of this, she enchanted everyone she came across.

Although her blood was not noble, the young child carried herself as a true princess. There was something else in her blood, a gift that many saw as curse over blessing.

"Mother, are dragons all bad?" The little girl asked one day, book under her arm.

"Mostly," she nonchalantly replied. Her attention was half-focused on her daughter, and half focused on the light box across the room.

"Why?" The curious child asked.

Mother dimmed the light box, bidding farewell to J.R. and Sue Ellen, and looked into her daughter's eyes. She was proud of her daughter's intelligence, but it also brought lines of intense questioning that didn't seem to fit the attention span of a five-year-old. Sean often joked that Isla was the younger woman of their house. She was rarely amused by the notion.

Teaching her daughter to read before other children was a blessing and a curse. Ever since she started sounding out the more complicated words in the encyclopedia, she was asking questions that were far from age appropriate. They ranged from, "why do we exist," to "what is sperm?" The latter was something that Isla didn't feel like explaining.

"Because they eat children and steal princesses, that's why," she laughed. The child opened her book. It wasn't an encyclopedia, thank God.

"Look, Mama. It's a nice dragon. See how he uses the fire to warm his friend?" The little girl beamed, and Isla sighed in relief.

She pulled the girl onto her knee, admiring the illustrations in her daughter's book. A green, scaly beast curled up beside a golden-haired princess. His wings spanned around her body in a way that was almost provocative, but with children's books, you could never read too much into it. Then again, this didn't seem like a children's book. This is...she flipped back to the cover, musing internally... Ulster's Collection of Medieval Artwork?

She wasn't even sure where the girl found it. Why couldn't she just read regular fairy stories? All stories had their origins somewhere, she supposed, but Isla wished that her daughter would stick to the watered-down versions. The child turned the pages back to the dragon, pointing to it. There was smoke swirling from his nostrils. A fire sat in the center of their winged tent, warming them against the snow.

"What a beautiful painting..." she told her nervously. "He does look like a friendly dragon."

"I want a dragon," the little girl mused. She smiled and bounced on her mother's knee.

Admiration turned to horror when Isla felt her daughter's skin. It was pale and feverish, even though she seemed to be in good health just a few seconds prior. The child sweated the residue of a hot kettle, heat leaving her fingers and drenching the page in fury. The more she bounced, the more fire leaped onto the page. Soon, the book was in flames.

The mother kicked it from her knees onto the floor. The fire quickly engulfed the rug. Nothing could stop it. When the foamy spray of anti-fire didn't quell it, she ran from the apartment with her tot. The little girl wailed as they left, but although her mother's knees were burned, the flames did nothing to the babe.

The complex evacuated to the dewy grass outside, moving further away as officers ushered the masses. Their friends and neighbors watched as a small blaze from Isla's rug took down a multi-level building. The fire brigade battled it for hours, even as rain poured. Not even the downpour would end it. The only thing that lessened its burn was the passage of time.

In the end, the fire burned out. No one was hurt, but the belongings of hundreds were baked in ash. Isla and her husband stared at the rubble, then at their daughter. A few days later, the father waded through smoldering heaps of cinder, stopping when he saw a silvery object covered in soot. Officers roping off the scene shooed him out, and he placed it into the hand of his wife.

"My grandfather's pocket watch..." she began sobbing. "Sean, thank you."

Isla flipped the top, blowing soot from the darkened glass. The scrolling around the dial was still perfectly etched, small hints of sun poking through the smoky clouds to glimmer on its surface. It was still as impeccable as the day her father gifted it, with one fatal change. The hands moved backward. She slipped it into her coat pocket, determined to fix it. She was devastated, but grateful. If this watch was the only material possession she had left, it was worth it, if only her daughter was beside her.

"The arson investigator wants to see us at the police station," Sean told her. "Says they need to know how the fire started."

Isla's lip quivered. Sean knew the truth. He'd known for a year, ever since an innocent kiss on the cheek stifled him. It left a painful welt, but he told his wife that the burn was the result of an accident at work. His attempts to conceal it were useless but unacknowledged, as Isla had known much longer. When water boils around your baby in the bathtub, it's hard not to take notice. Now, their daughter's power was plain to see. Her skin was cool, now, and she remembered nothing of the incident. Just as it always happened.

"You say that this was a cooking fire?" The inspector asked them that day. "We've found nothing in the kitchen to indicate it started there. We did find, however, a spot on the floor more consistent with a knocked candle, or a carelessly lit cigarette. If that's what happened, you don't need to feel embarrassed. It happens all of the time."

The inspector stared at them from across his desk, tone deceitfully amiable. His secretary poured Isla a cup of piping ginger tea, urging her to wait until it cooled. The daughter begged for one, as well, but didn't wait. The secretary held her breath, waiting for the child to scream. She never did. The girl gulped it as one gulps a cold drink, and with an air of sophistication at that.

"Well, it wasn't," Isla interjected. "It started on the stove. I was making dinner, and the grease caught fire when I added some frozen potatoes. I threw some water on it, but I didn't know you're not supposed to do that. It just made it bigger."

"Unfortunate, but common," the secretary remarked, still marveling at the girl's heat tolerance. She patted Isla's shoulder comfortingly, empathizing. "I did that once, frying some dumplings for Chinese New Year. They were still frozen in the package, and they combusted when they hit the oil. How I got my scars," she rolled up her sleeves to reveal the shriveled flesh on her arms.

"Miss Wen, cover yourself," the inspector barked. "Are you the arson investigator?"

Calla Wen hung her head low. She bit her ruby-painted lip, brown eyes sinking as she rolled her sleeves back over the scars. The girl took the woman's hand and whispered to her.

"Sorry about your arms. They're still really pretty. I like them."

She said it with uncommon compassion for someone so young. It made Calla flash a light smile.

"Would you like to come into the common room? The guys are making sandwiches, but I've been simmering some stew I think you'll like better."

The child nodded and followed Miss Wen, never letting go of her hand. When she left the room, the inspector intensified his glare.

"I'm not sure what to believe, ma'am. But, I don't think it was a grease fire. Your burns are on your knees, nowhere they'd be if you were standing over a stove. If you won't admit to carelessness, I will have to assume that the fire was started intentionally. Soap-addicted young mother's aren't the typical profile for a pyromaniac. Your acts had a reason. Insurance money? Covering up another crime? Could be any number of circumstances..."

"Leave my wife alone!" Sean cried. "You heard her side of the story. We want a lawyer."

"I never accused you of anything, now, did I?" The cruel man snarled. "But, if you want a lawyer, I suppose you can have one. In that case, I'll go right ahead and charge your wife with arson, and you as her accomplice. What was it that you were doing setting that fire while your child was home, anyway, Mrs. Abbot? I've heard of mothers that wanted their children dead, but you are their evil queen."

"That's enough! You're accusing her with no basis. We've lost everything, and you have the nerve to push it further..." Sean yelled at the man, eyes narrow. The inspector returned the glare.

"You haven't lost everything, yet. I don't believe you two are fit parents. If you don't give me a better explanation - one that lines up with the science - I'm making her a ward of the state."

Isla panicked. They could do anything to her, but if they put her daughter in foster care, there was no way she could protect her. What would happen when they dressed her for school, and the rubber on her soles melted? How would they handle it when she woke up from a nightmare, holes charred in the sheets?

"All right. It's true. I did start a fire, but I wasn't meaning to hurt anyone. I was getting ready to leave Sean, and I decided to let him have it one last time by burning his things. I set up a trash can in the living room, threw in some of his yearbooks, sports memorabilia, silly things like that. I opened a window and let it burn out, and when I thought it was out, I took my daughter and left for my mother's house. I was strapping her in to the seat when I saw fire coming from the windows."

"So, you're saying it reignited?"

"Yeah. That's what I'm saying. And I take responsibility for it."

For some reason, the inspector relented. Isla could tell from the look in his eyes that he still wasn't satisfied. It read dissatisfaction, but it also said something more terrifying. It screamed that he knew. He stood up, scowl on his face, and showed them to the door.

"We'll get back to you about the investigation."

As soon as the door closed, Isla and Sean went into the lounge and found their daughter sitting on a counter, mouth full of soup. Calla tipped a wooden spoon into the little girl's mouth.

"Yum," the child remarked after swallowing.

Calla caught the parents' stony faces and flashed a nervous smile.

"I hope it's okay I gave her some of this. It's just hot and sour soup from a can. My mother would kill me, but I don't do it from scratch. Would you like some?"

"No, we're alright," Sean said, shaking. He opened his arms and waved to the child. "C'mon kiddo. Let's go."

The girl ran and clung to her papa. She held onto his neck, hands still cool. Miss Wen followed them outside, grabbing the couple gently and lowering her voice to a whisper.

"Your daughter is gifted," she said. "Inspector Roberts isn't interested in what caused the fire. He's a different kind of hunter, and he's not going to stop until he has her. You need to get as far away from this town as possible."

"Where should we go?" Sean shivered. Isla grabbed her husband's hand.

"The cabin."