Chapter 3 Bitter Nights

The hearth was stone cold by nightfall. Daisy crouched, arms tucked around her knees, breath curling in the air. The chill gnawed her skin. The others huddled beneath a thin blanket, already dozing. She wished she could give them more, but they stayed hungry, cold, and miserable.

She stared at the kindling, remembering her mother snapping her fingers so that the logs flared with orange tongues. Fire was meant to respond to focus: the chest tightening, the mind forming a clear picture, a pulse of will threading heat through the air. Daisy flexed her fingers. Most could coax a flame with a thought, but to her, the process was like holding water—something crucial always ran through her grasp. It was said that fire ran in the blood. If so, hers had wandered.

She pressed her palms together, focusing until her world narrowed to a red pulse. Just one spark, please. She pictured it, tiny and perfect. Her jaw clenched. A faint tingle skittered across her skin. She held her breath, willing it to happen.

A few pale sparks leapt from her fingertips, brief pinpricks of light that landed on the damp wood, hissed, and vanished into wisps of smoke.

Daisy gritted her teeth. Again. She focused until her head swam and her hands shook. Blood trickled from her left nostril, spotting the logs. Still nothing but pain. Useless. She wanted to scream. She curled her fingers until her nails bruised her palms. Without thinking, she hurled a cooling ember across the stones. The spark fizzled, leaving a sooty smear. She bit her lip and tasted blood.

She wiped her nose, grabbed flint and steel, and struck. Sparks caught the newspaper; fire sprang to life. She watched the flames gutter, feeling more truce than victory. A palace whisper came to mind: true flame answered the undivided heart. In Amber Row, fire obeyed every noble child—their houses lit by flames, festivals thick with lanterns. Even street kids told stories of large families where magic was as stable as breath. But Daisy and her mother belonged to neither gifted bloodline nor grand house, just shadows teaching pyre and grace to others. She and fire never understood each other. How could magic live in her if nothing worked? She knew nothing of her father, so searching for his gifts was pointless. All she had was fire, and it never agreed with her.

The room filled with sour, comforting heat. Daisy tucked in her siblings, checked her mother’s fever, rinsed the pot, then sat by the hearth, watching shadows echo on the wall.

It was late when Maribel stirred. Her voice was thin, but clear. “Come here, pesty girl.”

Daisy knelt at her mother’s bedside. Maribel’s hands were like twigs, skin papery and cool.

"You’re strong," Maribel said, brushing hair from Daisy’s eyes. "Don’t let anyone tell you different."

Daisy blinked, clinging to her mother's words as if to a lifeline. With each weakening breath Maribel took, Daisy felt anxiety and determination coil inside her, sharp and heavy. She vowed: she would find a healer before the first frost, no matter the cost. The prospect of losing her mother was unbearable. Daisy steeled herself; her fragile fire would not be consumed by fear but channeled into hope.

Daisy tried to laugh, but it caught in her throat. “Can’t even spark a flame without bleeding. Some strength.”

Maribel shook her head, coughing into her fist. "That’s not what matters." Her fingers tightened on Daisy’s wrist, right where the odd birthmark curled like a faded spiral. "You know what this is? Long ago, your grandmother said girls born with the spiral carried keys the world misplaced. There’s old power in shapes like this, older than most remember."

Daisy shrugged. “A mark. Had it since I was born, as you tell the tale.”

“It’s ancient,” Maribel whispered, voice fading. “Older than this city. Blood that remembers.” Her gaze flickered, keen as ever. “Don’t forget, Pesty. You’re more than what they say.”

Then the fit struck. Maribel shook. Daisy pressed a rag to her mother’s mouth. One second. Two. Still shaking. Maribel’s eyes rolled, mouth working, breath stuttering. Daisy counted, heart pounding. Three. Four. Five. At last, the tremors faded. Maribel was limp—almost asleep, maybe unconscious. She drifted often. They had no doctor.

Daisy sat against the wall, staring at the rag. She counted coins, counted days. Time slipped away. No answers. Still, she could not let things stay as they were. She decided: tomorrow, she would search for a healer, even if it meant venturing beyond familiar streets or risking what little they had. She forced herself to hold onto that resolve, letting it steel her heart.

Blood that remembers. The phrase gnawed at her as she closed her eyes, trying to forget she was all that kept them alive. Before sleep claimed her, she glanced at the hearth. Deep among the glowing embers, she saw or thought she saw, a faint spiral, just like the mark on her wrist, glowing orange-red in the coals’ heart. It faded before she could be sure, but the shape lingered, burned behind her eyes as she drifted into uneasy dreams.