⸻

The morning of the twelfth day of the month, a Thursday, seemed at first like any other in the town of Duskwell.

A damp, rolling mist pressed down over the crooked cottages and narrow lanes, veiling the village in an unnatural hush. Even the bells of the chapel tower rang dull, as though the fog had swallowed their sound. Somewhere far beyond, in the skeletal forest that framed the town, the crows were restless. Their cries, sharp and sudden, cut through the air and set the hair prickling on the napes of those few villagers already awake.

Anya Mournell was the first to stir in the cottage. She was restless with anticipation: tomorrow she would turn twenty-one, and though her birthday fell once again on a Friday the thirteenth, a day already weighted with superstition, she wished only for her new dress to be fitted perfectly in time.

Her attic room was the only place alive in the house. Below, her mother and father still slept. The sun had barely begun to creep over the mountains, casting the mist in bruised shades of red and orange.

Anya dressed quickly, fastening herself into her favourite black gown, the lace sleeves trailing like cobwebs against her skin. She let her ginger hair flow freely; she had little cause to fuss with styles, having spent most of her life cloistered away in the cottage.

Holding the fabric of her new dress against her chest, she spun once across the room, her skirt sweeping the boards. "I pray it shall be perfect," she whispered to no one but herself.

Her cat, Noir, blinked at her lazily from the bed. Anya stooped to ruffle his fur before gathering her coins, basket, and scarf. Perhaps, she thought, she would stop at the bakery too. Noir gave a faint, disinterested flick of his ear and tucked his head back into slumber.

The floorboards creaked under her careful steps as she descended. She froze midway when one plank gave a louder groan than the rest, wincing as though the house itself might betray her. For a moment she stood still, breath caught, straining for any sign her mother had woken. Silence. With a sigh of relief, she slipped into her boots, wrapped her scarf snug about her throat, and slipped out into the morning mist.

The front door closed soundlessly behind her.

As she walked the worn out path which soon turned into cobblestones, she saw many other residents of duskwell beginning to stir. She passed a woman sweeping her stoop but she paused mid-stroke once she set eyes on the ginger. Anya offered a small smile but it was only returned with the elderly muttering something under her nose and turning away.

Others gave her the same treatment but she was used to it by now.

A milk cart rattled past, the driver flicked his eyes towards her only to dart them away again. Someone opened the shutters of their home but closed it once they caught sight of Anya walking past under the window. The few souls awake at this hour all turned their faces from her, or stared too long with that familiar blend of suspicion and fear.

Anya lowered her gaze. The basket looped over her arm seemed suddenly heavy. She told herself the stares no longer troubled her, yet the old ache lingered all the same.

The ginger Mournell passed the town center, the well stood in the middle of the square, and upon it sat a lone crow. It cawed once as she went by, but Anya did not so much as lift her eyes to it.

The seamstress' shop stood near the village square, its shutters freshly unlatched, lamplight spilling faint golden from the inside. Anya could see the slightly greying woman, Mrs. Whitlock, march up to the door from the inside to flip the sign to open.

"Good morning!" Anya greeted brightly.

The seamstress jumped in fright as Anya suddenly appeared in the doorway. Mrs. Whitlock let out a gasp, clutching the fabric of her dress. "Merciful heavens, child! You near frightened me into an early grave."

Anya took it upon herself to push past the now open door and step inside the narrow shop. It was a cozy little place, but quite small as it barely fit more that three people inside.

"I apologise." The ginger replied softly, though her words were not acknowledged. Anya sighed and grabbed the neatly folded dress from her basket. "It is my dress, for tomorrow. I thought I'd bring it early in hopes you would have enough time to adjust it."

The seamstress's eyes lingered on the fabric as though it might burn her. At last, fingertips grazing the skirt, she plucked it quickly from Anya's hands.

"Yes. I'll see to it." The elder woman grumbled as she set the delicate dress onto her desk. "It is only the hem, is it not?"

Anya's dark eyes followed every movement of the seamstress before offering a small smile. "Yes. If you might also take the waist in, I should be most grateful. Would you need to—"

"There is no need," Mrs Whitlock interrupted, already turning toward her worktable. "You have not changed since last I measured you."

Anya blinked. That was five years ago. She opened her mouth, then closed it again as the seamstress sat and slipped on her spectacles.

"But—" Anya tried again.

Mrs. Whitlock sat by her desk, not even bothering to glance up at her, dismissed her with a clipped: "Good day, Miss Mournell.".

Anya closed her slightly agape mouth with her face contorted into a bewildered expression. She lingered a moment longer, clinging to the hope of some civility. None came. She stepped back into the cool air, the door shutting firmly behind her.

The only bakery of the town was already open, the doors wide open, muffled chatter flowing from the cottage just two houses down the road. The chimney already breathed its warm, flour-scented smoke into the cold air. Anya paused, then decided.

Perhaps if she bought the household's food herself, her mother might show a shred of gratitude. Anya knew her mother came here to the bakery twice every week so maybe if she beat her to it she would be thankful for her daughter.

Atleast once.

When she entered the bakery lit with a golden hue and the warmth of the oven, cloaked in her habitual black, the lively chatter died immediately. The line of heads all turned in Anya's direction before turning back around, some shuffled away from the ginger. The young woman didn't even bother anymore and just waited, silent, until it was her turn.

"I should like three loaves," Anya said once it was her turn. "and perhaps some sweet rolls, if you've any left."

The baker, Mr. Hanley, set the bread down without a word. The ginger woman laid the coins neatly upon the counter, gathered the warm goods into her cloth and placed them into her basket. Anya thanked him and turned to leave as the line shuffled forward again. Her errands were complete and she hoped for her mother being even just a little bit grateful.

But as Anya adjusted the scarf around her neck it came: a sharp, piercing sound that cut through brick and bone alike.

A scream.

It echoed from the town center, the square that Anya passed not so long ago, the sound twisting into the mist. Everyone in the bakery froze, nobody moved, some broke into surprised gasps. For an instant it was complete silence. Then came the scrape of chairs, the rush of boots, and the entire room spilled into the street.

Anya, always the curious one, sometimes too curious for her own good, followed them back into the cold air.

The square, a hexagon shaped cobblestone area in the middle of the town with houses surrounding it from all corners, was a gathering place for whispers and gossip, but never before had it looked like this: crowds forming a ring around the old well, voices yelling in confusion and fear. Above, a murder of crows burst into the air all at once, their black wings churning against the pale sky as they fled into the forest. Their cries rattled at her skull.

And at the base of the well lay her mother.

The stone was slick with dew, black moss clinging to its base like something alive, and there she lay draped against the rim as though she had leaned too far forward and never found her footing back. Her hair, once a striking shade of chestnut, spilled into the dark water, threads of it swaying with each ripple. Her lips had turned pale, her eyes fixed on nothing, her body perfectly still but for the stir of her skirts in the breeze.

The villagers pressed closer, some making the sign of the cross, others muttering prayers, but still Anya stood still. Staring.

Only one crow remained. It perched upon the rim of the well, black eyes like obsidian, unblinking, its wings folded neat as though it had been waiting for her. It cawed once or twice but didn't move even when someone waved their arms towards it.

Anya stood frozen at the edge of the crowd. She should have felt something. Grief, horror, despair yet within her there was only silence, a hollow echo where feeling should have been. She watched the residents of Duskwell, she saw the ways they turned to look at her through the thick fog. Their eyes burned with a new certainty. Her mother. Her curse. It was bound to happen.

In their eyes it was her fault. In whatever story they made up in their head, Anya was the villain.

The ginger girl didn't move and inch. Not even when her fathers figure became clear as he clutched the cold figure of his wife in his arms. Not even when whispers already started to erupt around her, rumors already sprouting about her involvement, not even when the priest began to push through the crowd.

The crow still stood perched on the well like an ill omen. It felt like it was staring directly at Anya. Anya tilted her head slightly, and at once it loosed a final harsh cry that pierced the fog. Then, with a violent beat of its wings, it took flight eastward, toward the snow-clad peaks.

It flew towards the gloomy valley and cawed once it reached the highest tower of a dark castle built upon the side of the largest mountain.