Read Online Genevieve: A Witchblood Story (Witchblood Series) by Emma Mills - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Emma Mills
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out into the street and pulling the door behind her, hoped no-one came to investigate her mother’s sobs.
She had no real idea of where they were. They had made it past the city walls a week earlier , but even outside Paris, the streets were crammed with shacks and cottages, forcing them to travel at night. The peasants outside the city walls seemed hungrier and more blood-thirsty than their neighbours, all baying for blood, hungry for their humiliation. Genevieve had half-dragged, half-carried her mother the last couple of miles and the relief that had washed over her on discovering the derelict cottage was acute. Now all she had to do was find some food before dawn.
The lane led towards a village of some kind, with several other lanes joining in the centre. Most of the cottages had their shutters firmly closed, whilst others were hanging off the hinges. A baby cried out somewhere to her left. Genevieve scurried away from the sound and fled down another dark passageway.
For three days they had survived on nothing but river water. Her mother had refused the dandelions Genevieve had picked… the only plant she knew was edible, and it was this last refusal that had brought them into the town in a desperate search for food. As the first snowflakes fell she began to shake, her frame convulsing in response to the harsh wind and freezing sleet. She couldn’t give up; she had to carry on. She licked her dry, cracked lips and pulled the cloak tighter. Later she would find some branches from the riverside and build them a fire. Not that she knew how to, but she was sure she could learn. She’d have to.
Sometime later she found herself stumbling along a narrow muddy lane, a back street really, which ran directly behind a line of brick buildings belonging to merchants and traders. She could see the odd candle or oil lamp flickering in the windows as people began to stir. Soon it would become too dangerous to be out. If only she could find some rubbish carts, she might find something edible. The sudden smell of freshly baking bread drove her on; down the street until she reached the back of a building with a warm flickering light emanating from its windows and the low hum of the baker singing as he worked. It was all she could do not to rush to his door and collapse inside, begging for the one thing she had taken for granted her entire life. Instead she tiptoed across the yard and, doing her best to ignore the rotting stench, began rummaging through the pile of rubbish by the door. She stifled a shriek as a huge black rat scrambled out from its centre and lunged at her hand, before she swatted it away. Last night’s stew had been dumped on top of the heap, leaving a trail of gooey brown slime covering the potato peelings and ash from the bread oven. Genevieve licked the gravy from her fingers and grimaced as the ash clung to her teeth. She pushed the top of the pile away and dug deeper until she found what she’d hoped for… two small, burnt loaves of bread. They were hard, black and stale. Even the rats had discarded them, but Genevieve smiled. They would do.
Without warning the shutters above the yard were flung open and a shrill voice began screaming. Genevieve jumped back from the rubbish, clutching both loaves in her hands as she fled down the street. It was still dark, but dawn happened late in the winter months and as Genevieve ran through the lanes, more and more rooms were being lit… the village was waking. Ducking around a corner, she ran straight into the chest of a tall man. She leapt back but his hand shot out in a quick blur of movement to steady her, grabbing her bony shoulder. She squealed and pulled back in alarm, before looking up at him. Her eyes widened. There was something familiar about the aristocratic features, but she could trust no-one anymore. Genevieve quickly pulled away and darting round him, ran on. The man’s hand fell limply to his side and he watched her go, a crease of concern flashing
She had no real idea of where they were. They had made it past the city walls a week earlier , but even outside Paris, the streets were crammed with shacks and cottages, forcing them to travel at night. The peasants outside the city walls seemed hungrier and more blood-thirsty than their neighbours, all baying for blood, hungry for their humiliation. Genevieve had half-dragged, half-carried her mother the last couple of miles and the relief that had washed over her on discovering the derelict cottage was acute. Now all she had to do was find some food before dawn.
The lane led towards a village of some kind, with several other lanes joining in the centre. Most of the cottages had their shutters firmly closed, whilst others were hanging off the hinges. A baby cried out somewhere to her left. Genevieve scurried away from the sound and fled down another dark passageway.
For three days they had survived on nothing but river water. Her mother had refused the dandelions Genevieve had picked… the only plant she knew was edible, and it was this last refusal that had brought them into the town in a desperate search for food. As the first snowflakes fell she began to shake, her frame convulsing in response to the harsh wind and freezing sleet. She couldn’t give up; she had to carry on. She licked her dry, cracked lips and pulled the cloak tighter. Later she would find some branches from the riverside and build them a fire. Not that she knew how to, but she was sure she could learn. She’d have to.
Sometime later she found herself stumbling along a narrow muddy lane, a back street really, which ran directly behind a line of brick buildings belonging to merchants and traders. She could see the odd candle or oil lamp flickering in the windows as people began to stir. Soon it would become too dangerous to be out. If only she could find some rubbish carts, she might find something edible. The sudden smell of freshly baking bread drove her on; down the street until she reached the back of a building with a warm flickering light emanating from its windows and the low hum of the baker singing as he worked. It was all she could do not to rush to his door and collapse inside, begging for the one thing she had taken for granted her entire life. Instead she tiptoed across the yard and, doing her best to ignore the rotting stench, began rummaging through the pile of rubbish by the door. She stifled a shriek as a huge black rat scrambled out from its centre and lunged at her hand, before she swatted it away. Last night’s stew had been dumped on top of the heap, leaving a trail of gooey brown slime covering the potato peelings and ash from the bread oven. Genevieve licked the gravy from her fingers and grimaced as the ash clung to her teeth. She pushed the top of the pile away and dug deeper until she found what she’d hoped for… two small, burnt loaves of bread. They were hard, black and stale. Even the rats had discarded them, but Genevieve smiled. They would do.
Without warning the shutters above the yard were flung open and a shrill voice began screaming. Genevieve jumped back from the rubbish, clutching both loaves in her hands as she fled down the street. It was still dark, but dawn happened late in the winter months and as Genevieve ran through the lanes, more and more rooms were being lit… the village was waking. Ducking around a corner, she ran straight into the chest of a tall man. She leapt back but his hand shot out in a quick blur of movement to steady her, grabbing her bony shoulder. She squealed and pulled back in alarm, before looking up at him. Her eyes widened. There was something familiar about the aristocratic features, but she could trust no-one anymore. Genevieve quickly pulled away and darting round him, ran on. The man’s hand fell limply to his side and he watched her go, a crease of concern flashing
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