Chapter 10: The Plot Thickens

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows up the rough plank walls. The group sprawled in a loose semicircle around it, each of them worn out but undeniably content. Raphtalia, as always, sat right beside James, her presence a familiar, unspoken comfort. The slimes dozed contentedly, scattered around the room like lazy cats—Lilly idly stroked hers, Pebble perched on Raphtalia’s shoulder, and Bob oozed quietly across James’s lap.

Their father sat across from the fire, gaze locked on the pile of silver coins on the battered table. His face was an odd study in bewilderment and awe; even now, he seemed unable to process how abruptly their lives had turned. Not long ago, the family had been scraping by, perpetually hungry, one hard winter away from disaster, joking in the blackest tones about which child would be eaten first. Now, somehow, they were climbing out of the muck—edging toward something that might, one day, be called middle class. The thought was nearly heretical, but the new, second house outside stood nearly finished—larger, sturdier, with honest rooms for every child and enough space that nobody had to sleep beneath the table or bed.

Even Raphtalia was an odd one—a wild card in a household already teetering on the edge of the improbable. Just a young girl, barely more than a child herself, and a demi to boot—not even wholly human. James had raised her, quite literally, out of the gutter; she’d come to them feral, terrified, and shrieking. That first night haunted Garrick’s memory: she had screamed in a horrifying, animal panic, her body convulsing as if she expected to be beaten or worse. Most families would have thrown her out into the dark or done something far crueler. But James, with Bob and the slimes working their strange magic, had somehow managed to soothe her, to pull her back from the ragged edge.

Now, it was as if she’d always been there. She clung to James, shadowing him everywhere, her loyalty as fierce and implacable as a guard dog’s. Even Garrick had noticed the shift—Raphtalia was so attentive to James that it had become the source of open jokes and thinly-veiled barbs from Lilly, who was never subtle about her jealousy.

Raphtalia helped with everything—hauling water, weeding, mucking out the pens, even tending to the slimes with a competence that belied her age. She would kneel with James in the loamy earth, hands caked in mud, never uttering a word of complaint as the work wore on. She even went near the beehive now, her fear slowly giving way to fascination as she watched James and the slimes “tame” the buzzing, golden swarm.

That was another mystery altogether. James claimed the slimes had found the wild beehives, that they’d led him straight to them, but Garrick remained quietly skeptical. He’d heard rumors—stories whispered in the low company of desperate men—of children with latent magical abilities, little sparks flaring up in bloodlines battered by hardship. Maybe James had the touch, maybe he was lying, or maybe the truth was tangled somewhere in between. Garrick kept his suspicions to himself; after so many years of scraping by, a little miracle hardly seemed worth interrogating. And he did not know what he would do if the suspicion was true. James was his son, after all.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, voice gruff.

“Fuck, we’ll have to thank the Sheriff.”

“Pa?” James glanced up, Bob quivering on his knee, alert as ever.

Garrick cleared his throat and made the announcement: “The sheriff paid James two hundred silvers for his help and information. James is donating some of it to the new houses. We all need to thank him. In two days, I’m going to town to thank the sheriff personally. I’ll take James and Raphtalia, get you both some proper clothes—none of this patched shit. Next week, the new house will be finished. We’ll need to move everything from this house over. Raymond’s men will tear down this old place and build a new one. Another five, maybe six weeks, and we’ll have both ready.”

That drew a loud cheer from the entire family, the children practically bouncing in their seats. Even the slimes seemed to wriggle with excitement, picking up on the giddy mood.

Marta, arms crossed, chimed in, “Remember, you’ve all had new clothes, so if your old things are rags, we’re not moving them. If fortune keeps running our way, you’ll go into this winter properly dressed for the first time.” Her voice was edged with a satisfaction that came from years of deprivation, suddenly, shockingly, coming to an end.

“Hey,” James said quietly, breaking the lull that had settled over the room.

Raphtalia glanced up, her face instantly coloring. “Yes?” She looked uncertain, always wary of saying the wrong thing.

“You okay?”

She nodded, but the gesture was hesitant, her hands twisting together in her lap. Truth be told, she didn’t know what to think, didn’t even know how to articulate half of what she felt. For most of her eight years, clothing had been little more than rags scavenged from refuse piles or even corpses, held together with knots and desperation. Food had always been a matter of luck or violence; her last meal before James found her had been whatever she could club or catch in the alleys—dogs when she got lucky, rats when she didn’t.

She shuddered at the memory. She hated rats. The taste, the texture, the way their little claws felt when she had to skin them, the stink that clung to her fingers. Most nights she’d lain awake, cold and hungry, listening for threats in the dark. Now there was warmth, safety, and this strange, embarrassing abundance. She could barely process it.

“I’ve never had new clothing before,” she admitted, her voice low, almost ashamed.

James twitched at that—she saw it, a flicker she’d noticed once or twice before, something old and dangerous flashing behind his eyes, like a fire smoldering beneath the surface. For a split second, he looked nothing like an eight-year-old. But just as quickly, the moment passed, and he grinned, all boyish mischief again.

“Pa, we need to get Raphtalia a pretty dress.”

Garrick sighed and nodded. “It’s only fair. She’s been doing all your chores lately, and half of mine too.”

“Hey, I’ve been busy bear hunting,” James shot back, the old spark of humor returning.

The group went to bed early that night, bone-tired but oddly content. As was their habit, the kids curled up beneath the big bed, bodies sprawled in a jumble of limbs and blankets, with James’s arm slung protectively around Raphtalia. For a few hours, exhaustion conquered anxiety, and the rough breathing of children filled the cramped room.