Eira
Eira yanked a handful of silver-leafed herbs from the soil, her movements jagged and sharp. The stalks snapped in her grip, the scent of crushed mint and damp earth filling the air, but it didn't calm her.
The memory of her father's eyes from that morning rattled in her head. Another failed attempt. She threw the roots into her basket, her jaw set so tight it ached.
"Calla told me the apothecary's apprentice is losing her touch," a sharp voice cut through her thoughts. "Guess she was right."
Eira looked up and glared at Lyra.
Lyra stood on the upper terrace, flanked by her two shadows, Calla and June. Behind them stood Boris, a tall boy with a permanent smirk who liked to kick over the market stalls when the Wardens weren't looking.
They came to the mid-tier because they needed moon-glow petals for the festival, and they hated that they had to ask Eira for them.
"I'm busy, Lyra," Eira said, her voice a low warning.
Lyra stepped down onto the dirt, her leather boots crushing a fresh sprout of fever-few.
"My mother says your house smells like a graveyard. She says you're wasting village supplies on a man who's already dead."
Eira stood up slowly, wiping her muddy hands on her apron. "If you want to buy something, I don't think insulting me is the best approach." She gestured inside the shop. "And besides, he's sitting in his chair. He's right there."
"He's like a prop," Calla added, crossing her arms. "And frankly, it's creepy. You're holding back the rest of us. If you can't provide the petals because you're too busy playing nurse to a corpse, we'll just tell Mrs. Gable you've lost your mind as he did."
Boris stepped forward, his amber lantern swinging mockingly. "Maybe the 'Hollows' should just be moved to the lower sheds. Save the heat for people who actually use it."
The mention of her father being a "waste" snapped the last thread of Eira's patience.
"He is more of a man than all of you combined!" Eira shouted. She stepped toward them, her lemon-yellow lantern swinging violently at her hip.
"He's the reason this village even has a perimeter! He didn't 'lose his mind'! He gave his light so people like you could sit around and be cruel!"
Boris laughed. He reached out to shove Eira's shoulder. "Easy, you little schmuck. You're getting mud on-"
Eira didn't wait for him to finish. Her hand went into her apron pocket and pulled out the leather pouch of pepper-root powder. With one quick motion, she slammed it onto the stone walkway directly under Lyra's feet.
Snap!
A cloud of fine, red dust erupted instantly. Lyra, Calla, and June shrieked as the powder hit their eyes and lungs, sending them into a fit of coughing and blind stumbling.
Through the haze, Boris lunged. He didn't care about the girls; he was always looking for a fight.
Eira quickly dropped her weight and drove her fist straight into Boris's stomach, then followed it with a sharp punch to his jaw.
Instead of doubling over in pain, he snarled and swung back.
His large hand caught Eira across the cheek, a heavy, stinging blow that sent her stumbling into the dirt. Her ears rang, and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.
Eira scrambled up, ignoring the throbbing in her face. She grabbed her heavy garden trowel and held it like a knife. "Try it again," she whispered, her voice trembling with rage. "I dare you."
"I'm not giving you any petals!" Eira yelled. "Find someone else to make your lanterns pretty!"
Boris looked at the sharp iron of the tool, then at the girls who were still coughing and crying. He realized he'd gone too far. "Keep your petals. You're just as dead as they are."
The four of them scrambled away, coughing and cursing as they fled toward the upper bridges.
Eira stood alone in the fading red mist, her chest heaving and her knuckles throbbing. The anger was still there, but beneath it was a terrifying sense of relief.
She walked to the edge of the terrace and leaned over the railing, gasping for air. She looked down into the deep, misty chasm where the lower bridges hung like spiderwebs.
A flicker caught her eye.
Down there, near the rusted iron of the docks, was a light. It wasn't amber, and it wasn't her own yellow. It was a deep, bruised violet.
Eira's breath caught. She gripped the cold stone railing.
That was the colour.
That was the stain from her father's lantern. It wasn't a ghost. It was a person.
The person down there was looking up. Even through the fog, she could feel the weight of their stare. They'd seen everything.
"I see you," she whispered.
The figure stayed still for a moment, the violet light pulsing once, twice. Then, they turned and vanished into the shadows.
Eira didn't go back to her herbs. She grabbed her basket and started walking. Her hands were still shaking, but for the first time in years, she felt like she was finally starting to wake up.