Call Me Mara — “Noble”
Chapter 3 of 32
I’m calling this month “Mara March,” wherein I’m moving forward with the tale I’ve designated as my debut novel. Find below the second of four chapters I’ll share throughout. May these samples tease the themes that permeate my stories and demonstrate the craft I bring to build the Renaissance.
The orphan spent an hour seeking a stream not teeming with tadpoles and parasites. Her wound stung her as she dipped it into the flow she’d found, painting pain onto her features until she withdrew it. With the opposite hand, she gripped at the bottom of her coarse shirt. It was her sole source of wrappings, but if she tore it much more, she’d have nothing to warm her flesh.
“Stupid hag,” she seethed to herself before dipping the wound again. Hethys had hurt her before, but she’d never left her with an open wound. The orphan considered it a step too far; bruises were one thing, but she could hardly afford to let her insides sit exposed.
Grimacing through the pain, she splashed the shallow water to maximize coverage, rubbing and squeezing the wound to clear as much old blood as possible. Thus distracted, she failed to notice the footsteps approaching through the grass on the opposite bank.
“You’re hurt,” a lad tenderly observed. This, the orphan heard.
