Free The Singing Fire by Lilian Nattel

rushed into the station. She was nodding, about to say, “Are you having a holiday?” when she saw Lizzie standing over there by the clock tower, her thin hair falling over her face. And then the Squire was pushing between two men carrying fighting cocks in a crate. In front of her the train had stopped, around her the crowd was waiting for the doors to open, there was nowhere for her to go when he grabbed her arm.
    He walked with her behind a pile of rubbish in the train yard, holding her tightly against him, so tightly that she stumbled like a drunk and nobody took notice. The rain had stopped and the fog come up. It hid the river and the Tower, it softened the rattle of trains. But the Squire was larger than the fog and the whistle of his walking stick louder than church bells as they reached the back of the rubbish heap. She didn’t see the first blow; the stick swung behind her legs, knocking the breath out of her as she fell against a broken wheelbarrow, covering her head with her arms and curling her legs as she tumbled into the mud. He struck again, and she screamed loud to please him so that he wouldn’t kill her as she fought for breath. She couldn’t faint, she had to think of the baby.
    “I’m sorry,” she gasped, half sitting, her back against the rubbish heap. In the distance ordinary people were boarding the train. Porters pushed carts loaded with trunks. “I won’t do it again.”
    “I don’t give chances. Not to them as runs away. It’s a matter of what’s mine,” he said, lifting the walking stick. It was made of blackthorn, a cane for warding off vicious dogs. The top was curved, the stick burred with thorns. “Did I pay for you? Was you worth it?”
    “Yes,” she said, arms crossed over her belly. “I mean no. Don’t hurt me.”
    “And why not? This is mine,” he said, bringing the stick down. “And this and this.” The stick followed her as she rolled from side to side, taking everything it could find. She gave it her back, she gave it her bottom and her legs, but the baby she hid under her cloak, under her arms, inside her skin.
    “Please don’t kill me,” she begged. She was lying on her side, cheek in the mud. It was a thick mud, a gray clay mud. “Please.”
    The Squire leaned on the cane, wiping his face of sweat. He wore a plaid waistcoat and a green scarf around his neck. Behind him a train blew steam as it left the station.
    Her body was burning; she could feel every bruise, and the only place she didn’t hurt was her belly. “It was a mistake. I was just out walking,” she whimpered. “Lizzie saw me just walking.”
    “Then you won’t walk so far again.” He tapped her arm with the stick. It was wet with mud and blood. “You’ll remember?” he asked, squatting beside her. “Give me your hand on it.” She reached out a hand, and he held it for a moment, looking at her closely as if she were naked and he was noticing the oddness of her private parts.
    “I’ll remember,” she whispered, kissing his hand as if she loved it.
    Then he took out his knife. Gravel bit her cheek. The clock tower chimed as he lifted her dress. “I’ll make sure of it,” he said, and the knife was dull in the dull light.
    He was getting rid of the baby, that was it, and then she would bleed to death. Her eyes were blurred with mud. She wanted to see the clock tower so she’d know the time that her life ended. Never mind. What did it matter? She’d follow her child into the other world so it wouldn’t be there alone.
    But it was only her thigh that he stroked, saying, “Here’s the markto remind you of what you owe. You forget and you’re dead.” Only now, when the Squire cut into the flesh of her thigh, could she run from her body, hiding up there with the unseen moon, and there she stayed, listening to her grandmother sing: “The wind, the wind, the raging wind…”
    Dorset Street
    The ceiling slanted down toward Nehama as she slept and woke, unsure of the time. Fingers