Word spread quickly about our group passing through the city. Soon, more people start lining the street until they’re five and six people deep, waving and calling to us with excitement, wondering who travels in the group, what important person they might catch a glimpse of. I keep my head down, my gloved hands on the reins, not daring to look up or let my hood fall back.
The guards in front keep the way clear, our procession going even slower as they constantly have to urge people aside to make way for our carriages.
After a while, we turn off the cobbled road, away from the gathered crowd, heading deeper into the heart of Highbell. I sigh a bit when we’re no longer being watched under the scrutiny of dozens of people, my hands relaxing on the reins, but that relief is short-lived.
The further we go, the poorer our surroundings become. Right before my eyes, Highbell goes from a beautiful and pristine city proper into a dismal, back-alley slum.
I eye the change warily, noting that even the noise seems insulated here, not carrying any of the joviality that existed on the main road. Here there’s only the sound of babies crying, men shouting, doors slamming.
“Normally, we’d stay on the main street, but since we’re heading for Fifth Kingdom, the south road is the quickest way out of the city,” Sail murmurs, riding much closer to me now—he and Digby both—since the hard-packed road is even narrower.
No longer are the buildings on either side of us made of thick stone, but of wood instead. The structures aren’t well made, some crooked and crumbling, others sagging with age, like the snow and wind has been trying to weigh them down for years, nature winning against the man.
Even the Pitching Pines seem rougher here, their bark craggy and splintered, branches half empty of needles.
The lamps along the road become fewer and further between, until they finally stop completely. The road, no longer cobbled, turns to sodden, icy mud that kicks up with the horses’ hooves.
And the stench…the air no longer smells crisp and fresh and free. Instead, it’s held captive, a stagnancy that seems to cling to the sagging faces of the buildings, piss and sweat so overwhelming that it makes my eyes water.
“What is this?” I ask as I look all around the broken and depressed part of the city.
“The shanties,” Sail answers.
More babies wail, more people argue, shadows scuffle down alleys, and stray dogs sniff around corners, their ribs visible through mangy, ice-ridden fur.
Highbell doesn’t feel so picturesque anymore.
“How long has it been like this?” I ask, unable to look away.
“Always,” Sail replies with a shrug. “I’m from the east side, myself. Little more space, but…not much different than this,” he admits.
I shake my head, eyeing the puddles on the ground, knowing they aren’t from rain but from the filth buckets people pour out their windows.
“But…Midas has all that gold,” I say with confusion.
Call me naive, but I assumed since Midas was crowned, since the palace turned from stone to pure gold, that the entirety of Highbell became a wealthy city too.
I didn’t even consider that some of Midas’s people would be poor, right here in the city. Why would they be? He has all the means to pay them handsomely, no matter the job. Gold is no hardship for him, so why are his people living in squalor like this?
“I’m sure he uses his gold for other things, my lady,” Sail says, though I don’t miss the way he darts a look down to his gold-plated armor over his chest, or the guilt that seems to crawl into his blue eyes as he scans our surroundings.
He’s on high alert, all of the guards are, like they half expect bandits to come out and attack us. Given the scenery, I don’t doubt the possibility of that. Some of the people look desperate enough to do it.
But when some of the guards unsheathe their swords, an open threat at the bedraggled people we pass…something in my chest presses against my heart, hard and persistent, making it bruise.
And when I see children start to peek out from behind empty crates of garbage or follow us with wide eyes, their clothes little more than threadbare scraps, their faces gaunt with missing meals, cold dirt caked against their cheeks…that press against me digs deeper, bruises harder.
Pulling on the reins, I steer Crisp to cut off Sail, pulling up against the carriage. “My lady!” Sail calls, and I hear Digby curse again as I stop Crisp and jump down, landing harder than I mean to. I nearly slip on the icy mud, but the carriage blocks my fall. It’s still rolling when I wrench open the door, but it jolts to a stop just as I lift myself up.
“My lady, we cannot linger here!” Sail says behind me, but I ignore him as I lift up the velvet seat inside the carriage, my hands digging through my things.
“Get back on your horse.” Digby growls, and I search frantically, shoving aside scarves and extra mittens, looking, looking…
“Got it.”
I back out of the carriage and step down, but our stop in the middle of the street has brought those peering eyes closer, those dark silhouettes converging.
“Get back on your horse,” Digby orders again.
“One second.” I don’t look at him, too busy scanning, searching.
There. Across the street, a group of them are huddled beside a water well, broken buckets and snapped strings littered around the sad-looking water source.
I make my way over, and I hear some of the guards grumbling, some of the saddles in the other carriages asking why we’ve stopped. Then the unmistakable sound of someone jumping off their horse, long, sure strides heading after me.
But I keep going, right for that group of kids. They’re skittish. As soon as they see me coming—or maybe see the guard stalking behind me, two of them dart away, slick steps disappearing into the shadows. But the smallest one, a little girl, maybe four years old, doesn’t run. She stays there in front of the others, watching me as I kneel in front of her.
Twelve in total now, not counting the others that ran, all of them too skinny, too dirty. And their eyes, their eyes are too old for their ages. Their shoulders drooping with a weariness no children should ever hold.
“What’s your name?”
She doesn’t answer me, but her gaze scans over my face, as if she can see the glimmer of my skin beneath the hood.
“Are you a princess?” an older girl asks, but I smile and shake my head. “No. Are you?”
The children all scoff together, trading looks. “You think princesses live in the shanties like street urchins?”
I lower my hood and give her a conspiratorial smile. “Maybe hidden princesses do.”
Several of them gape. “You’re the golden girl! The one the king keeps.”
I open my mouth to answer, but Digby steps in front of me, body tense. “Time to go.”
I nod and stand up, but not before I dip into the velvet pouch. “Alright, you secret princes and princesses. Hold out your hands.”
Sensing what I’m going to do, they all eagerly push their open palms in front of me, shoving each other aside. “None of that,” I reprimand.
One by one, I place a coin in each hand, and they race away as soon as their dirty fingers curl around it. I’m not offended or surprised. When you’re on the streets, you don’t linger. Especially with money or food in your hands. All it takes is a second for someone bigger and meaner to come along to take it from you.
When I reach the quiet, small girl in the front, I press the pouch in her hand, three coins still inside. Her eyes widen at it, and like her body knows what this could mean, her stomach growls loud enough to rival the stray dogs.
I hold a finger to my lips. “Use one, hide one, and give one away,” I whisper. A risk—it’s a risk to give her this much gold. Hell, it’s a risk to give them any at all, but I have to hope she’s savvy enough, smart enough to be safe. The girl nods solemnly at me and then turns and sprints away as fast as her little feet can carry her. Good girl.
“Carriage. Now.”
I straighten up and turn to my guard. Digby wears his anger on his face like some people wear a coat—heavy and dark. I open my mouth to tease him or say something smart, but snap it closed when I notice that all the guards have their swords out, facing the people who have come out onto the streets. Who witnessed me giving out gold coins right out in the open, enough money to fight for. To kill for.
The ragged, hungry, desperate looking men and women dare to step closer, roving eyes on the gilded edges of the carriages, the fine armor of the guards, probably tallying how much they could buy with just a single piece.
But then their eyes fall to me. To my hair, my face. I realize too late that I didn’t put my hood back on.
“The king’s favored.”
“That’s the gold-touched woman.”
“She’s Midas’s gilded pet!”
They keep edging nearer, despite the halting warnings of the guards, and guilt and worry curls in my stomach. Stupid. This was stupid.
The tension is thick in the air, like the people are just a second away from snapping, from deciding to take their chances and attack the armed soldiers for a chance at some of Midas’s gold.
Digby’s hand lands on my arm, spurring me into action. “Go.”
I quickly follow Digby’s order and hurry toward the carriage as the people’s voices get louder, their steps closer.
And then, right before I make it to the carriage step, one of them launches forward, racing right for me. I scream as he snarls at me, screaming about taking some of my golden hair, hands curled like the talons of a hawk, ready to snatch its prey.
Digby is there in a heartbeat, between me and the crazed man. Digby sends a well-aimed shoulder into his gut, sending the man sprawling, splashing into a half-frozen puddle.
“Get back!” Digby growls, holding his sword, pointing it at the crowd like a warning. The creeping, gathering crowd pauses, but they don’t back down, they don’t leave.
The moment I scramble into the carriage, Digby is there, slamming the door shut behind me, and we’re lurching forward, the sound of guards shouting orders and threats ringing out.
A nearby fight makes me jump, the sound of fists against fists, people hurling insults at me as we go, spitting on the carriages, cursing the king.
I’m too afraid to look out the window as we go, so I sit ramrod straight on the cushion, cursing myself for my stupidity.
I know better than to flash wealth around in the poor parts of a city. But seeing those kids…it was like looking in a mirror of my past. I wasn’t thinking straight.
When the shouting grows louder, the horses move faster, as fast as they dare in the slogged and muddy street. I pray that no one attacks, over and over again, I beg the starry goddesses to hold them at bay.
Not because I fear for myself, certainly not because of what they could steal. But because I don’t want the guards to be forced to hurt them. These people have been hurt enough.
Poverty like this is a wound. A wound that King Midas has let fester and infect. It’s not their fault, this desperation, this weighed decision of whether or not to attack for the chance at a meal, at a blanket, at medicine. It’s survival. And all of us, every single one, would do the same in their position, would battle with that burdensome “what if.”
But luckily, no one attacks. Luckily, the guards sheathe their swords. But relief doesn’t find me. Only guilt. Guilt that I dangled that carrot in front of the starving and then snatched it so callously away.
The gold castle sitting on the mountain in the distance must be like a thorn in their sides. A constant reminder of a horizon they can’t reach.
I wish the sun would come up sooner. I wish that my pouch had held more coins. That I could’ve bathed the street in gold. But under the chilling cover of night, helplessness weighs on my spirit as our party moves on without further incident, until the last of the decrepit buildings are past, the last haunting face disappearing from view.
And it’s a sad, bitter realization that settles in my bones. Because if even the city ruled by a golden king is as impoverished as this, then what hope does the rest of Orea have?
