She Said No

Chapter 4: The Breaking of the Caravan (Part 1)

Dawn came, and with it, Lyra's answer.

She found Dren near the horse picket, checking the girth on his saddle. The morning light was pale and watery, filtering through a thin layer of clouds that had crept in from the east. He looked up as she approached, and something flickered in his eyes---hope, perhaps, or anticipation. It made her stomach turn.

"I've thought about your offer," she said.

Her voice was steadier than she felt. The night had been long and cold, but somewhere in those dark hours, she had found a small, hard knot of resolve. She was exhausted. She was humiliated. She was nearly naked and utterly alone. But she would not---could not---sell the last thing she owned: her sense of who she was.

Dren straightened, his hand still resting on the saddle. "And?"

"No." The word came out sharper than she intended. "I can't. I won't."

For a moment, his expression didn't change. Then something shifted behind his eyes---a subtle hardening, a closing of doors. His smile remained, but it was thinner now, more brittle.

"That's your choice," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I won't force you."

"Thank you." She turned to go.

"Lyra." His voice stopped her. "If you change your mind---"

"I won't."

She walked away without looking back.

The camp was stirring to life around her: mercenaries rolling up bedrolls, Pip feeding the horses, Voss barking orders from the lead wagon. The scarf was still draped over the wagon wheel where she'd left it to dry. She picked it up, her fingers brushing over the rough, frayed wool. It was dry now, but the damage was worse than she'd realized. The ends had unraveled significantly, leaving loose threads dangling like the fringe of an old rug. The fabric itself was thin---almost transparent in places---and when she held it up to the light, she could see the sky through it.

Still, it was better than nothing.

She draped it around her neck again, arranging the ends over her chest as best she could. The wool covered her nipples, barely, but did nothing to conceal the shape of her breasts beneath. The ends were shorter now---the scarf had always been too small, and the fraying had made it smaller still. The fabric barely reached past her ribcage, leaving her stomach and the torn front of her dress completely exposed. She tucked the ends into the waistband of the dress---a futile gesture, she knew, but it made her feel marginally less exposed.

Then she went to find Voss.

The caravan master was standing beside the lead wagon, studying a map with her second-in-command---a grizzled old mercenary with a grey beard and a permanent scowl. She glanced up as Lyra approached, her cold eyes sweeping over the girl's body with clinical disinterest.

"Well?"

"I need to know what my duties are today," Lyra said. She kept her arms at her sides, resisting the urge to cross them over her chest. She had learned, in the past three days, that trying to cover herself only drew more attention. Better to pretend she didn't notice.

Voss rolled up the map. "Same as yesterday. Cooking, cleaning, fetching water. And we're running low on kindling---see if you can find some deadwood along the road when we stop at midday." Her lip curled slightly. "Try not to set yourself on fire again."

Lyra's jaw tightened. "I'll do my best."

"We're moving out in ten minutes. Get in the supply wagon and start on breakfast---the men want porridge."

Porridge. She could do porridge. She hoped.

The morning ed in a blur of oats and water and the endless jostling of the supply wagon. Lyra sat on a sack of flour, a large pot balanced between her knees, stirring the porridge with a wooden spoon. Pip sat across from her, sorting dried beans into two piles---good and spoiled---and pointedly not looking at her.

The scarf had come untucked within the first hour. The motion of the wagon, the constant leaning and stirring, had worked the ends loose from her waistband, and now they hung free again, swinging back and forth with every jolt of the wheels. The wool had stretched slightly from the previous day's soaking, and the ends seemed thinner than ever---more holes than fabric in some places. Her breasts, small and firm, were visible through the gaps, the pink tips of her nipples peeking out whenever the scarf shifted.

She had given up trying to fix it. There was no point.

By the time the caravan stopped for the midday rest, the porridge was finished and Lyra's arms were aching. She climbed out of the wagon on stiff legs, her bare feet meeting the dusty road with a wince. The soles were worse than yesterday. She needed shoes. She needed clothes. She needed---

"Kindling," Voss's voice snapped from somewhere behind her. "Don't forget."

Lyra bit back a retort and headed for the treeline.

The woods beside the road were thin and scraggly---second-growth timber, mostly, with tangled underbrush and fallen branches scattered across the ground. Lyra picked her way carefully, stepping over roots and rocks with exaggerated care. The scarf swung forward as she bent to collect sticks, and she had to keep pushing it back over her shoulders. The ends were too short to tuck in now; they wouldn't reach her waistband anymore.

She had gathered perhaps half an armful of deadwood when she heard the voices.

Men's voices. Low and rough, coming from somewhere deeper in the trees.

Lyra froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She strained to listen, but the words were too muffled to make out---just the rumble of conversation, punctuated by occasional laughter. Then, clearer: "---wait 'til we stop for the night. Voss won't care."

She felt the blood drain from her face.

Slowly, carefully, she began to back away. A twig snapped under her heel. The voices stopped.

"Hey!" someone shouted. "Who's there?"

She ran.