Omens had never settled on Paris for longer than a fleeting thought.

When the cow she milked this afternoon snapped its noose, burst through the barn's slightly-open gates, and ran off into the vast plains, Paris had registered the frantic shrieks of the other farm ladies and their damning curses.

"Frantic animals are never a good sign," Farda, one of the farm ladies Paris had the pleasure of working with since she was old enough to work, said, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial whisper. "Gentle Matilda too, out of all rowdy heifers. Something's going to happen and it's not going to be on Luck's wheel."

Paris resisted rolling her eyes at the older woman. First, Farda was twenty years her senior. Second, the straw bale littering the barn's floor really needed changing. So, no. Matilda, or whichever heifer bolted to freedom, would be the last of Paris's worries. If she was caught not doing her job, sure, grim things would really happen.

A sharp gust of wind tore from her nostrils as she clenched her jaw, tightened her hold on the handle of the pitchfork taller than her, and continued scratching against the ankle-high layer of straw. The smell of manure mixed with sweat and unwashed clothes hung heavily in the air, reminding her of the first time she ended up in this place. How she woke up with her back pressed against a bed of cow pastries would forever be a common wives' tale in this part of Stonedenn.

Not that she cared. Farm ladies passing out and landing into piles of shit wasn't a rare occurrence or an ill omen. That was, despite what the other people in the stable seemed to believe.

"Not a chatty one, are ya?" Farda prodded, seemingly unable to take the hint that talking was the last thing Paris wanted to do so late into the afternoon. Paris was itching to toss the pitchfork into the pile of tools in the nearby shed, trod home, and pass by their secret place before the lanterns flick off.

A small smile pricked against the corners of her lips when she thought of the familiar ruins of some stately building just at the lip of Stonedenn. It was an ideal spot considering it was far enough to keep Paris away from prying eyes but it was near that a few minutes of walking on foot wasn't burdensome. Moreover, the person waiting for her there...

"Cat's got ya tongue?" Farda's shrill voice speared through Paris's thoughts, shattering them into thousands of pieces. "Out of the ladies in this barn, you's the only one aloof like the Elders' belltower."

Paris exhaled through her mouth this time, ultimately getting a whiff of the barn's musty smell down her throat. It used to make her gag but she's gotten better at suppressing her senses since then. Gods, look at her making sacrifices already.

She straightened, the prongs of the pitchfork dragging in a scratching path by her feet. "Don't you have another heifer to attend to?" she stared the woman down. Didn't matter that Farda was older now. Paris was pissed. "The hens' coops needed cleaning too. I'm sure if you've got time to diddle, you've got time to clean 'em."

Because, if Farda or any of the other ladies didn't get it done at the end of the day, Paris was sure to inherit the job just because she's "younger and more agile". Oh, if she could see Lance's face right now. That phony farm owner, and unfortunately Paris's boss, would have probably checked her out a hundred times, all the while, smirking.

"Such a shame, really. Girls like you should be married by now," Lance's voice played in Paris's head. Just a hypothetical voice, of course. But it wasn't a far-off happenstance now. "You'd be able to quit the farm and become useful somewhere."

Yeah, useful in being a man's pumping hole. In being a pipe spouting his children. In being his maid. In being whichever hat he needed her to wear.

Paris wanted none of it.

Farda blinked, watching Paris with a tentative frown like she couldn't decide whether to slam Paris off or to laugh at Paris's face. She did neither. The woman scuttled off into the clucking mess of the coops by the opposite end of the barn, muttering under her breath. Something about a donkey's ass chewing Paris's hair off?

A snort rang from the back of Paris's throat as she went back gathering the hay into a single pile. The wet schlop of a number of clumps joined the stringent scratches of the dry stalks against the ground. A donkey would choke to death should it have a taste of Paris's dark curls. They'd want nothing to do with her after one bite.

The hushed whispers thickening into a rabid cloud around her told her enough of the lingering stares and the fleeting "worry" of the other women in the barn. All of them found Paris to be an interesting subject of gossip or just a discussion for reasons she failed to understand. Some days, it was about her height, or her clothes, or her shoes. Other times, it would be her pale skin, her dead, ink blue eyes, or her dark curly hair ballooning around her head.

During her unfortunate days, the topic would be about her family and her apparent lack of a husband.

Paris didn't bother learning a name from the horde of giggly girls and withered wives. She didn't need to if all they're going to do was talk about her just because she wasn't cuddling a babe close to her nipples. Farda's the exception, though. The woman insisted on shoving herself into Paris's life mostly because she didn't have anything better to do.

Like, say, cleaning the chicken's coop.

Judging from the giddy shrieks and the flitting and breathless jibber, Farda has found another pastime.

Paris stared out of the wooden windows of the barn. Past the vast pasture dotted with yellow and purple flowers of endelwens lay the valley flanked by silhouettes of two peaks shielded with summer fog. The bright blaze of the sun was almost to the line where green met the light blue sky, flooding the expanse with brilliant streams of orange, pink, and purple. Just a little more now.

It'd be sunset soon.

"Oh, I can't believe Matilda ran off!" a sentiment floated above the cacophony and slammed into Paris's ear. The cow, again? She recognized the voice but she couldn't care less of identifying who it belonged to. "Shall I visit the Healer tomorrow? I don't like this heavy atmosphere around my baby."

A gasp filtered from another woman. Paris watched the rest of the farm ladies set buckets of soapy water aside and trudge close to the little circle widening around Farda and the Healer fanatic. "I forgot you're even with a babe!" the woman exclaimed, fanning her face with a meaty hand. "Well, if I have a catch like Stefen, I'd have me a big family too."

"What, you mean like a sow?" a young, wiry woman snickered. She looked about Paris's age but the dark bags under her eyes convinced Paris otherwise.

If that came from Paris, the other women would have taken offense. Since it's not, the circle burst into fits of giggles. "Aye, like a humongous, winter sow," the chubby woman envying this Stefen fellow fluttered her eyelids. "I'd give anything to get away from the idiot that's supposed to be my husband."

Another round of giggles. Paris rolled her eyes for real and focused on gathering separate piles of hay to conjoin into a mega-pile. Perhaps the omen was referring to the mind-numbing conversation she was being forced to listen to now. Sure, she'd believe in omens by then.

As soon as one of the women pointed out that the sun had already changed into a faint ball of flame, Paris discarded her pitchfork and trudged out of the barn, faster than a triumphant squirrel upon a bounty of acorns. Her footsteps drowned out the noisy clatter of people bustling in the town as she cleared the paddies leading to the lip of Lance's expansive property. Then, she turned some lefts and rights, her boots clacking away against the cobblestones, until she reached a dingy shed sandwiched by other similar buildings.

Home sweet home.

She trudged inside, the door creaking against its hinges as she swung it open. Heads turned to her presence before swiveling back to what they're doing. Just like she had never been there and the door had opened on its own. A heavy musk of something hung in the air—something Paris couldn't quite put a finger on.

After a quick change of clothes to avoid bringing the smell of shit into the dining room, she headed down to dinner just as her mother was placing steaming pots and pans into the blotchy expanse of wood.

Silence hung in the air. The only sounds were of their silverware clinking against their porcelain plates. Paris raised her head from her food to signal her sister from across her. Diane flinched when their eyes met, her electric blue eyes immediately dropping back to her plate. More clatter of silverware filled the room.

If Matilda running away was a sign for something, this better be it.

Paris slammed her hands on the table, making the plates and her sister jump. "What's going on?" she asked, not bothering to keep her tone kind like she was taught. "Why are you being quiet?"

"Eat your food, Paris," her mother said, shoveling a bite into her mouth. Her eyes seemed to be everywhere but in Paris. "It's getting cold."

"There's clearly something I'm not aware about," Paris narrowed her eyes. "What is it? Is there another fund shortage again?"

Her mother visibly flinched. Right. It was a touchy subject for their family. If not for the misplaced funds her parents had borrowed from the Treasury and places one shouldn't even be borrowing from, Paris wouldn't have been forced to work in Lance's farm as early as she did. Diane would have had the chance to go to a girls' school and learn about silly things like arithmetic or alchemy.

This time, her father broke silence, scratching the thick hairs on his arm. "Just focus on finishing your dinner," he said. "We'll tell you everything on your birthday."

Paris raised an eyebrow. Birthday? It wasn't for another three days. What's bound to happen on her birthday? Was she going to be forced to marry a man?

"Why wait until then?" she asked. "Why not tell me now?"

"Paris," her mother's tone was a mixture of pleading and exasperation. "Please."

Let it go, she seemed to be saying. Even though it wasn't spoken, those words still hung in the air like an impending doom. Paris frowned. Like a petulant child who wasn't given candy during Idis's Day, she stuck her fork into a slab of three-day old meat and shoved it into her mouth.

Fine, then. If they didn't want to talk, they wouldn't talk. Paris learned that the hard way as a child and now, as an adult. It's annoying, especially if it seemed to concern only her. Diane seemed to know it too but knowing she's under their mother's leash, the girl wouldn't talk either.

Her gaze drilled into the table, her cheeks burning with an indescribable annoyance gurgling in her throat. It was always like this with Paris's family. She would be the last to know. By the time she did, the decision had already been made, the cart had already lugged forward, the ship had already sailed. And the manner she finds things out wasn't by direct talk. It would always be as a second thought. As a fleeting reminder. As snippets revealed in hushed conversations.

These people would always have the audacity to act surprised when Paris told them she did not, in fact, know about whatever new rumor was going around. That's how she never found the energy to entertain the farm ladies in Lance's property. Those women rivaled the archive in terms of gossip and who's sucking whose dicks.

Paris ground her teeth, swallowing the bland meat as she did. Her birthday, then. If there was anything Matilda had told Paris with its escape, it was to run. Far, far away from here. She should have followed the heifer when she had the chance.

But she didn't.