"Youch! Ugh! Mistral! Just pick one braid and get it over with, will you? I haven't got until Miracle Fest!"

It was overall an ordinary day in the Hild House. Except for today, it was Mistral doing up Meya's hair instead of the adept Morel. As a result, Meya's reenactment of her daily morning whining was even more melodramatic than usual. She bobbed and jerked her head to the rhythm of her rant, which ironically slowed fumbling Mistral down even more.

Mum's sigh could be heard even over the incessant pounding of her stone pestle over acorns.

"Meya, the fields are only a little way away. A quarter hour won't make much of a difference."

"And my eyes, interestingly, have always kept me only a little way away from lynching." Again, Meya whipped around to get a snipe across, and Mistral was left to comb out a half-finished ruined braid and redo it from the top. Luckily, Meya was too busy giving Mum a piece of her mind to notice, "A beautiful braid won't make much of a difference. If at all. So, remind me again who this is for?"

Meya's glowing green eyes rolled up and glared upside-down at Mistral, who was working too feverishly to respond. Mum was losing her temper fast, and Marin couldn't help trying to smooth things out. She laid her charcoal pencil down on the first paragraph of her new story.

"Just let Misty have some fun, Meya. Your hair is rich and strong. And it's such a rare color."

Meya's glare changed target to Marin instead. For someone so impatient and impulsive, her eyes were paradoxically cold. Marin barely had time to mentally prepare for the barrage of acid her middle sister usually reserved for her before the girl let loose.

"So? Does that make my head her practice loom? My time is gold. And what's under my hair is how I mine it. Will you decide on one already, Mistral?!"

Meya hissed through gritted teeth up at her baby sister, who jolted and dropped her attempt at the elaborate lace braid. The poor girl was on the verge of tears, and Mum abandoned her pestle at last, her well of patience drying.

"Maelaith Aiyne Hild, workday or rest day, you're scarcely in this house anyway. Would it kill you to be here for your sister for a quarter hour!?"

Meya whipped around to Mum and sneered, her smirk icy.

"Because that's my job. Feeding all your pretty, cherubic mouths. And this is your job. Braiding each other's hair and matchmaking Queen Marin."

And with that pithy remark, Meya grabbed her lunch and straw hat then sprang up. Mum also shot to her feet.

"Young lass, you will not talk of us this way!" Meya ignored her and strode pointedly to the door, prompting Mum to storm out from behind her pile of acorns, "Don't you walk away, Meya Hild! Get back here this instant! Meya!"

The door slammed behind Meya's mane of half-braided orange hair, leaving Mum to take heaving breaths. Mistral dashed over to cling to her dress, and with one arm Mum absently held her. Then Morel, who had been silently cracking acorns for Mum to pound all along, finally pitched in her two latts.

"Does she realize that she's the reason we can't work?"

"Morel," Mum cautioned, her level voice undercut with danger. But Morel was too frustrated to fear it.

"You know it's true, Mum!" She rounded on Mum, standing up and throwing out her hand, "We're all carrying Greeneye blood. And we're dirt poor! Who'd want their sons to marry us if we weren't always the prettiest we can be? Why did you even marry Dad, anyway!?"

Marin felt her heart skip several beats in shock, and Mistral clutched Mum's leg even tighter as Mum raised a finger trembling with fury,

"Morelia Hild, you stop right there or Freda help me I will beat your calves raw!"

Mum's hoarse, cracked voice rose into a snarl. Morel flinched back on instinct, blue eyes wide in fright and contrition, especially at Mum's revelation,

"There are Greeneyes on my side as well. There are Greeneyes in every family in Latakia!" Mum jabbed her finger into her chest, then repeatedly towards the earth as her eyes stared daggers into Morel's.

A strained pause followed as Morel remained frozen, breathing gingerly as she watched Mum, eyes unblinking. Marin got up from her corner and went over to Morel, laying silent but comforting hands on her shivering forearms.

Mum calmed herself down with a long, slow, silent sigh, then explained quietly.

"The reason you're not working outside isn't because Dad's afraid the sun will steal your beauty. And what we do here isn't any less important than the work Meya and the boys do in the fields." Mum glanced at each of her daughters in turn as she emphasized each word, then threw out her arm,

"Who will tidy the house? Who will do the shopping, the cooking, the laundry? Who will mind the vegetable patch? Who will weave and mend clothes? You're needed here. And you love being here. That's why you're here. Your father and I decided together that four breadwinners is enough. And you're all earning your dowries by your own methods. So is Meya."

Mum reminded them, but as Morel nodded meekly, Marin couldn't help looking away in shame. Having taught herself to read and write from Myron's books in her free time, she copied church manuscripts with her beautiful penmanship, and sold stories, songs and poems she wrote at the bazaar for a copper or two.

But, being Gold Class, she didn't need to do all this. Her real goal was to buy her freedom. Travel the world like Tricia of Haventoth. Write fresh stories based on her real experiences. Instead of stale, wishful dreams. But her beauty also meant she could marry into a rich family and give Mum and Dad an easier life in their old age. And she was torn. Had secretly been for years.

"You asked why I married your father." Mum continued, and the three girls were instantly alert, sensing a story that would not be told twice. Mum nodded to herself, acknowledging their unasked questions. The unasked questions of the everyone who had known her and Dad.

"Yes, he had always been poor, and he was open about it. He had Greeneye relatives, and he was open about it."

Mum traipsed back and settled down in her spot behind the pile of acorns, her usually demure, graceful demeanor bitter and jaded like her stream of biting words.

"By the time my troupe came 'round to Crosset that year, I was quitting even before I realized I wanted to. A decade on the road, singing from midday to dusk at every village in sight took its toll on me. The ringmaster was milking me like cattle. My Song was already pushed to the limit even before I had Meya."

The girls' eyes widened in horror and grief at the tragic secret behind the erstwhile Song of May Day. Mum sniffed back tears as she picked up an empty acorn shell to fidget with,

"Your father was the one man who never once asked me to sing for him. All the times he visited me, he would bring me honey he had hunted himself to soothe my throat. He would talk to me about any and all things, apart from my Song."

"I told him I had never done a day of housework, and that I was about to give up singing. The only job I was good at. He vowed to never force me back into it, and he laughed with me when he came home from the fields to our house in chaos."

Mum smiled in nostalgia through her tears, and her three daughters, despite their differences, all mirrored her. Then the Hild matriarch turned to her eldest and prettiest daughter, who blinked in surprise at the warning sent straight to her,

"This might be harsh on your ears. Especially for you, Marin. But know that Freda's blessings will not last. My Song. My beauty. My youthful vigor. Even these naughty lasses."

Mum hitched up a devious grin as she gestured with her chin towards her still generous bosom. And the four women chortled in unison. Then Mum glanced around at each of them, her voice now solemn.

"Your time to choose will arrive someday. When that time comes, I want you to look not at how the man treats you, but how he treats someone less blessed than you. Someone like Meya. "

The young women blinked, then turned to stare at each other at that strange advice, then all became clear at Alanna's ultimatum...

"For that is how he will be treating you once your flowers have withered. And your fruits have fallen."

...Marin's hands clenched into trembling fists as the past faded away to be replaced with the ongoing scenario before her eyes. Terron Neale was standing with overflowing mug in hand, surrounded by his admiring troupe members as he drunkenly boasted of how he managed to land himself the prettiest young maiden in Crosset.

His mug swinging, he glanced about the throng, which has erupted in another round of cheers following yet another clever punchline. Then his eyes finally spotted Marin's, peeking out from under her hooded cloak, peering patiently at him from just beyond the crowd, where she stood waiting with her elder brother Maro.

"Oh, Marin, my love!" He slurred as he staggered over to her side and slung his beer-laden arm around her shoulders, "I was just telling my folks the good news. So, have you decided?"

He leaned close in excitement, his beer-smelling breath blowing into her nostrils. Maro clenched his jaws but remained silent, yet never edging a half-step away from Marin's side.

Marin gazed into Terron's bright brown eyes brimming with hope and joy, then swung her hand back and let fly with all the might in her arm.

Terron pirouetted on tipsy feet and keeled to the wooden floor with a dull crash. Clawing at his stinging cheek, he whipped back to Marin in utter confusion, as did all the men in the rowdy tavern, which had fallen graveyard silent.

Marin pulled the hems of her raggedy dress out of the way of his akimbo limbs, ice-blue eyes serenely staring down her long apron at his pathetic form at her feet. His drunken bliss evaporating fast, Terron protested in annoyance borne of embarrassment.

"Marin! What was that for?!"

For once, Marin's usually kind blue eyes were as cold and vacant as a frozen winter lake. And there was a hint of venom in her voice which was reminiscent of Meya's as she softly obliged.

"Oh, you know what for."

And amidst the lingering stares of shock from the merrymaking men, Marin swept back out of the tavern, never once looking back.

The bastard did not deserve to see her tears.