Chapter 2 The Endless Cycle

The market sat three alleys past a burnt pawn shop and a shrine where drunks lit gutter candles. Daisy slipped through early risers, thieves, and mothers bargaining for wilted vegetables, dodging spell-birds pecking at crumbs and charms knotted to buttons. Once, she begged her mother for a penny to buy a plum; now she gripped her purse, breathing frying onions and wet stone, tinged with coppery luck distilled nearby. Each step felt heavier, weighed by hunger’s memory and fear of returning empty-handed. She tried not to think of her mother’s cough or the little her coins would buy. Vendors watched her with suspicion and pity—did they sense her desperation? A juggler whirled fireflies spelling cheap fortunes, drawing children’s laughter, while a one-eyed, forked-tailed cat slipped under tables. Rain-soaked tents of sailcloth and tarpaper, stained with old blood and cider, were guarded as if they hid secrets, not stale bread. Daisy noted every face—edged with threat and hunger—her gaze skipping what she couldn’t afford: jars that whispered, baskets lined with runes, and mud that clung to her boots as if remembering her.

Daisy eyed the apothecary’s booth. Jars glimmered on warped shelves—colored syrup, dried herbs and fruits, odd things in brine. Each jar showed a bold, fixed price. The apothecary, round in a brocade vest, had clean, shining hands. His blue ring gleamed as he muttered preservation spells, making Daisy’s magic twitch—faint, unruly, and never reliable in public. Her mother had always said Daisy’s magic ran wild and sideways, likely to cause trouble. Surrounded by carefully measured magic and fixed prices, Daisy felt her own abilities shrink, as if the air pressed them down. Still, she wondered what she might do if desperation forced her hand.

Daisy waited in line behind a rich woman in a fox fur, watching her pull out a gold coin to buy honey cough candies. When the woman finished her transaction and left, Daisy placed her own copper coins carefully on the counter.

“One vial of motherwort. And a pinch of willow bark, please.”

The apothecary glanced at her, then at the coins. “Prices have gone up.”

“Since yesterday?” Daisy kept her voice even, holding back disbelief. She wanted to snap, but stayed calm. For a moment, she pictured dumping syrup on his vest, but swallowed the thought.

He shrugged. “Inflation. Supply. Or maybe I don’t like your face.” He picked up the coins as if they smelled. “You get a single willow splinter if you’re that desperate.”

Daisy swallowed the spike of anger. “That won’t last a day.”

He grinned, sliding over the bark sliver. "These herbs don’t grow themselves. Neither does charity."

A green aura flickered as he sealed the jar. Daisy tasted bitterness. Real magic, strong enough to remake the slums, was withheld for profit, trapping people in deprivation. Power stayed with guilds and merchants, guarded by licenses and locked doors, regulating even hope by cost. In Ironhill, magic wasn’t a public good, but a commodity, its distribution mirroring social inequality. Casting spells without a permit meant punishment, especially for the marginalized. Daisy saw how magic’s rules reinforced poverty’s boundaries, making true relief nearly impossible for people like her.

She took the silver, pocketed it, and left. Behind her, the fox-furred woman watched, smiling without kindness. To the rich, the poor were a joke. Daisy wished for the power to fight back, to make them feel as she did, but nothing changed.

Daisy moved through the market, past stalls where children pointed at sugared buns and candied apples. Nearby, a noble’s daughter shrieked as her mother bought a sky-blue parasol, oblivious to the mud.

Home was a tenement by the canal, third floor, room nine. Mold slicked the steps. Daisy’s boots left tracks that never faded.

Inside, the air pressed close: boiled cabbage, old socks, sweat. Breathing felt like swallowing soup. Her siblings huddled by the stove, paging through a scavenged picture book. The paper was greasy, and the colors faded. They didn’t read, just liked the pictures. The room throbbed with bodies and hope. Faces smudged with coal and hunger, Daisy found her mother coughing on the cot.

Maribel Smithson was a skeleton in patches. Gray-faced and thin, her hair hung in ropes, but her eyes still flashed. She hid the bloody rag and smiled.

“Did you get it?” she asked.

Daisy nodded and held up the willow. "I wrung the market dry for this," she said, crossing to her mother’s side and placing the splinter in her hand. "Tomorrow we’ll try the garden again."

Maribel’s hand trembled as she reached for Daisy. “You’re a wonder, my girl.” The cough returned—dry, then wet, then silent as she pressed her fist to her lips.

Daisy held her mother’s hand. The younger ones crowded in. The eldest, barely twelve, stirred the soup and ladled with flair.

“Tonight we eat like nobles,” he said, grinning.

“Only if nobles like potato skins,” Daisy shot back, earning a chorus of giggles.

She served the soup, saving a double portion for her mother, and sat on the floor. As her siblings recited stories and the wind rattled the glass, Daisy watched her mother’s breathing steady. When no one looked, Daisy checked the rag—scarlet, impossible to ignore. The sight jolted her with fear, quickly replacing fleeting reassurance. She pressed it in her fist, and for a moment her mind raced: how far would she go for another vial? Even stealing or worse? The thought scared her, highlighting her abrupt shift from hope to anxiety. Daisy tucked the cloth away, already searching the shadows for answers she hadn’t dared consider. Dangerous possibilities whispered—unlicensed charms, midnight bargains, spells that took as much as they gave. Magic could give hope, but always took its price. Daisy teetered closer to choices she might not escape.

Hope and hunger: all they had left. Hope kept them alive, but Daisy needed a way out.

She sat back, hugged her knees, and stared at the patch of gray sky beyond the window. Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow she’d do better.