Chapter 4

The morning sun rose sluggishly over the Weston farm, its warmth doing little to lift Q's spirits. 

Her arms ached from yesterday's work, her legs trembled as she trudged toward the pigpen with a heavy tub of scraps balanced on her hip. She hated feeding the pigs. The smell clung to her no matter how hard she scrubbed, and her mother always found fault in how she did it.

But she didn't complain. Complaining would only bring more scorn, and her skin already bore enough evidence of her mother's temper.

As Q reached the pen, the pigs greeted her with snorts and squeals, jostling against the wooden slats. 

"Alright, alright," she muttered, lifting the tub. "I'm coming, you greedy little things."

She leaned over to pour the scraps into their trough, but the edge of the tub caught on the fence post. The whole thing tipped forward too quickly, slipping from her hands. Leftover stew, rotten vegetables, and who-knew-what-else splattered across the muddy ground.

The pigs squealed in delight, trampling over each other to gobble up the spilled meal.

"No, no, no!" 

Q groaned, dropping to her knees in the muck. She frantically tried to scoop the scraps back into the trough, but it was no use. The damage was done.

"Queenie!"

The sharp snap of her mother's voice froze Q in place.

She turned her head slowly, her heart sinking. Her mother stood a few feet away, her face flushed with fury. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I—I was trying to—"

Smack!

The slap came without warning, sharper than the crack of a whip. 

Q stumbled backward, her bare heels slipping in the slick mud as she landed hard on the ground. Her head snapped to the side, the sting of her mother's hand radiating across her cheek, leaving behind an angry, burning imprint.

"Trying?" her mother hissed, looming over her. The sun cast her face in shadows, making her eyes look colder than they already were. "Trying to what? Embarrass us? Waste what little food we have? You can't do anything right, can you?"

"I-"

"You useless girl," her mother spat. "Can't even feed pigs without making a mess. How do you expect to survive when you can't do a simple job right?"

Q's palms pressed into the mud as she tried to push herself upright, but her mother's boot came down on her wrist, pinning her to the ground.

"Stay there," her mother barked. "Maybe if you're closer to the pigs, you'll learn something useful from them. Because Lord knows you haven't learned a damn thing from me."

"I'm sorry," Q choked out, her voice trembling. "I didn't mean to—"

"Didn't mean to?" Her mother's laugh was bitter, like the scrape of metal on stone. "You never mean to, Queenie. You never mean to break things. You never mean to ruin things. But somehow, you always do."

Q's vision blurred with tears, but she didn't cry. Not in front of her mother. She wouldn't give her that satisfaction. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, determined not to let a single tear fall. 

Her mother crouched down, her breath hot and acrid as it ghosted over Q's face. 

"You think the world's going to take pity on you? That someone's going to swoop in and save you when you can't even save yourself?" She shook her head in disgust, her voice low and venomous. "No one's coming for you, Queenie. Not that Carlton girl, not anyone. And if you can't figure out how to carry your own weight, you'll end up just like that useless father of yours—broken and worthless."

The mention of her father twisted something deep inside Q. 

She couldn't look up, couldn't meet her mother's eyes, but her hands clenched into fists, the nails digging into her palms.

Her mother finally stood, dusting her hands as if she'd touched something filthy. 

"Clean it up," she snapped, her tone colder now, distant. "And don't even think about coming inside until it's done. If you do, you'll be eating with the pigs tonight."

As soon as her mother was out of sight, Q stood, mud clinging to her dress and hands. Her cheek burned where she'd been slapped, but it wasn't the pain that hurt the most. 

It was the shame. The anger. The helplessness.

She couldn't stay here. Not another day. Not another hour.

Without thinking, Q turned and ran toward the house. She burst into her tiny room, grabbing the few belongings she could carry—the clothes on her back, a battered scarf, and, most importantly, the box of letters she'd written to Maddy.

She didn't pack food. She didn't pack water. She didn't even know where RAPS was.

But none of that mattered. She would find Maddy, no matter how far she had to walk. Only with Maddy could she feel safe again, protected from the world that seemed to take joy in tearing her down.

The journey was harder than Q had imagined.

She followed the main road at first, keeping her eyes on the horizon and her thoughts on Maddy. But as the hours dragged on, her stomach began to growl, and her throat grew parched. The midday sun beat down relentlessly, and her legs felt heavier with every step.

By the time the sky began to darken, Q was stumbling. Her head spun, her vision wavered, and her steps faltered. She clutched the box of letters tightly against her chest, the weight of them both a comfort and a burden.

When she finally saw it—the gate—she thought for a moment that she might be imagining things.

It rose before her like something out of a storybook: an intricate iron archway adorned with twisting vines and delicate patterns that gleamed faintly in the dim light. Beyond it, the path disappeared into shadows, but Q could see the faint outline of grand spires in the distance, their tops bathed in the dying light of the sun.

She didn't need to read the plaque, not that she even knew how, on the gate to know where she was. 

This had to be RAPS. It had to be.

Her legs trembled as she approached the gate, her heart pounding in her chest. She pressed a hand against the cool iron, feeling the intricate grooves beneath her fingers.

"This is it," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "I made it."

But the gate was locked.

Q frowned, looking up at the towering structure. She glanced around, but there was no sign of anyone nearby. 

No guards, no carriages, no one to ask for help.

Her gaze shifted to the bars of the gate. They were spaced wide enough for her to get a foothold, if she climbed carefully.

Determined, she set her letters on the ground and gripped the iron bars. Her arms shook with exhaustion, but she pulled herself up, hooking her foot onto the lower rung.

She had just reached the middle of the gate when a voice rang out, sharp and commanding.

"And what do you think you're doing?"