Free Ash & Bramble by Sarah Prineas

Crouching, my head brushes the rooty ceiling; the opening is a low arch that shows only gathering night. The air in our cave is heavy and damp. I sweep the lumpy ground withmy hand until I’ve made a flat place by the low opening and, working mostly by touch in the darkening cave, I make a pile of the moss and bark and the smaller twigs. With chilled, dirty fingers, I reach into my apron pocket and pull out the thimble.
    â€œIf ever you’ve helped me,” I whisper to it, “help me now.” I hold the thimble to the tinder. “Burn,” I tell it.
    For a moment, the cave stays dark. Then a faint spark falls from the thimble into the dry moss. The tiny feathers of moss glow orange and curl, and a wisp of smoke drifts up. Quickly I add a few peels of bark to the moss, and the coals lick up into flames, and then I add sticks, and in a moment a warm fire is burning merrily.
    â€œThank you,” I whisper to the thimble. In the flickering light, I take a moment to inspect it. Reflected in its smooth, silver base is my face, tiny, wreathed by etched brambles. “You came from somewhere,” I murmur. “And I’m going to find out where.”
    Opening the knapsack, I find that even though it’s wet on the outside, the things within are dry. Clever Jacks—it’s waterproof. First I pull out a candle and light it at the fire, and stick it in the dirt by Shoe’s foot. Now for my wrist. The skin is purple around the gash, which is about as long as my pinkie finger. As I squint at it, another drop of blood oozes from it and falls to the dirt. My apron is filthy, covered with dirt and flakes of moss and bark, but it’s the best I’ve got. I tear a strip from the bottom of it and use it to bind up the wound. There,all right and tight. Then I start pulling things out of the knapsack to see what we’ve got: the bag of money, which is no use to us at the moment, a few more candles, a paper-wrapped package of gingerbread, and a row of pins stuck in paper that I stole from the sewing room. That should be everything, but the knapsack isn’t empty. I pull out a rough woolen blanket and two packets that smell like food of some kind and a stoppered bottle of water.
    The Jack. He must have had the bag already packed when we came for the hook. I know how much the Jacks fear the post: I hope our Jack hasn’t gotten a flogging for what he’s done. I close my eyes and clench my fists. “If I make it out,” I whisper, a promise to the Jack far away, who might already be dead, “I’ll figure out a way to come back for you.” And for the other Jacks and the Seamstresses who passed me scraps of silk under the table, the Spinsters who snuck me a bag of gold coins, and the Candlemakers who spared a few extra candles. All of them. It’s a big promise, and one I probably can’t keep, but I am the first to escape, and so I must try. Shoe will help me, I know.
    After feeding the fire another knot of wood, I take my treasures and settle next to Shoe. He has his eyes closed; he is still shuddering with cold.
    â€œHere,” I say, and carefully ease the sodden coat from his shoulders, replacing it with the Jack’s woolen blanket. I spread his coat next to the fire to dry and join him under the blanket. The fire blazes away. The pine wood is full of sap,and it pops and hisses; sparks leap up, and the comforting smell of woodsmoke fills the cave, but most of the smoke is pulled out of the opening. Every now and then Shoe gives a convulsive shiver as if he’s throwing off the last of the cold. Then, finally, he is still.
    I watch the flames, safe in our cocoon of warmth and light.
    â€œI know it’s wretched,” I say to him, “and that I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. But I don’t wish you back at the fortress.”
    â€œNo,” he agrees, “I don’t wish either of us there,” and I see that his eyes are open