It took Uma a while to wake up. She could tell by the strain in her joints — the deep stiffness of a body that had been still for too long.
Her hair was tousled over a pillow that wasn't hers, on a bed that wasn't hers. She wasn't in her own clothes either. She'd been changed into a crimson linen dress that draped down past her knees.
Not hearing any angels. So I'm not dead. Probably.
She shifted up slowly. Her head throbbed, her vision wobbled, and she took in the room.
Bare. Empty. The only decoration was a scatter of vines crawling around the window frame and a small nightstand beside the bed.
Whoever designed this place clearly doesn't have an eye for architecture.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood. The dress was way too long. The floor creaked under her bare feet. Somewhere else in the house, something was cooking — the smell hooked into her stomach like a fishing line and dragged her toward the door.
She reached for the handle.
The door swung open and hit her directly in the face.
Two for two.
Mr. Blacksmith stood in the frame, booming something she didn't understand, before his enormous hands scooped her up off the floor and set her back on her feet with a pat on the head.
Then he was struck with a pan.
The red-haired woman from before came around the corner mid-swing, and this time Uma got a proper look at her.
Forty, maybe fifty. Yellow eyes that had greyed slightly with age — eyes that had definitely seen things. Red hair pulled loose at her shoulders. Graceful, even while hitting a man with cookware.
She yelled at Mr. Blacksmith, then turned that same intensity on Uma.
Shit. Shit. She's pissed.
The hairs on Uma's neck stood up like a cat dunked in water.
But then — nothing. Ms. Red's face softened completely, and she pulled Uma into a hug, murmuring something in a voice Uma couldn't parse but understood anyway.
An apology. She's apologizing.
For what.
Before she could finish the thought, Ms. Red was letting her go and turning back to Mr. Blacksmith with a wooden spoon, and the smacking resumed. He cowered in the corner like a dog that had been caught on the furniture.
They're literally a married couple.
Uma smiled in spite of herself.
She hadn't felt this kind of warmth in — well. Ever.
The little skit played out for another minute. Ms. Red, all five-foot-nothing of her, standing over a defeated Mr. Blacksmith who was curled into a ball in the corner of the kitchen.
Eventually she wiped her forehead and turned back to Uma.
"Well, tu es hungry, kleines Kind?"
Hungry. Uma caught that one. She nodded.
Ms. Red held out a hand. Uma took it on instinct and was led to a chair at the kitchen table.
This is so weird.
The kitchen was warmer than the bedroom — cozier, lived-in. The same vines from upstairs ran along the walls here too, though more as decoration than invasion. There were jars along one shelf, a rack of herbs above the stove, and a window open to a morning Uma hadn't known she was sleeping through.
Ms. Red was saying something.
"Баклажан ты 你好 sprechen كلب مع pasta?"
What.
Uma nodded.
"Вы любите soup, mon petit каждый?"
Soup. She caught soup. She nodded again.
"How ты est باشد вкусно маленький?"
...Yeah. No clue.
She gave a thumbs up.
A bowl slid toward her. Fresh soup — beef and potatoes, rich brown broth — and Uma dug in like she hadn't eaten in a week. Because she hadn't. She went through one bowl. Then another. Then a third. A small tower of bowls accumulated next to her elbow.
Mhmm. Yummy.
Ms. Red sat down beside her with a gentle smile.
"Баклажан それ était good, маленький?"
Uma still didn't get it. Smile and nod, Uma. Just smile and nod. She gave another thumbs up.
Mr. Blacksmith eventually surfaced from his corner and sat down. Ms. Red shot him a look that made him flinch. He muttered something, then reached past her, picked up the entire soup pot, and started drinking directly from it.
Ms. Red shot up out of her chair.
The wooden spoon reappeared like she had it holstered somewhere. She whacked him across the arm. He did not stop drinking.
She whacked him again. Still drinking.
She eventually just shoved him aside and poured two more bowls, at which point he took the pot back with a grin and went right on chugging.
Free food and a show. I should get attacked more often.
Uma caught the thought and winced. Too soon. Still funny. But too soon.
When they'd all settled down, Ms. Red and Mr. Blacksmith looked at each other, then at Uma, then back at each other. Ms. Red said something. He nodded.
They both disappeared through a door Uma couldn't see past from her seat.
Okay. Just... sitting here. Alone. Cool.
She kicked her feet under the table until they came back.
Ms. Red was carrying a stack of books. Mr. Blacksmith was carrying what looked like a miniature chalkboard — rough, clearly a blacksmith's work over a carpenter's, but solid.
They sat down on either side of her.
Ms. Red said something, watching her face carefully. When Uma didn't react, she picked up the chalkboard, opened one of the books, and drew two symbols on the board side by side.
An alphabet — Uma counted twenty-six characters in the book — and Ms. Red was testing her.
Uma squinted at the board. Let the symbols settle. Read them.
H... I.
...Hi?
She waved, uncertain.
Ms. Red nodded — pleased — and erased the board.
She drew again.
N A — E
Uma frowned at the third symbol. Couldn't make it out. But she was a grown woman. She used context clues.
My name?
She opened her mouth.
"..."
Nothing came out.
She blinked. Cleared her throat.
"..."
Nothing.
What—
She tried again. Harder this time, pushing air through her throat.
"..."
Her hand drifted up to her neck.
And then she felt it.
A line of raised skin, running across her throat from one side to the other.
...Oh.
Oh no.
Oh no no no no no—
Her fingers traced the scar — once, twice — like if she went over it enough times the shape of it would change.
It didn't.
No. No. Come on.
She tried again. Tried to force something — a syllable, a squeak, a cough, anything.
"..."
Her chest started moving too fast.
Holy shit.
My voice is gone.