Face-Slapping13 min read
"I Won't Let You Take My Mother Again"
ButterPicks15 views
"I opened my eyes and spat blood," I said, and the room answered with old wood creaking.
"I told you not to come to town today," my mother whispered, half asleep on the kang. "You are weak."
"I will go," I said. "I will bring them back."
They had tied me to a bed once. They had left me for dead on a stone floor. They had slit the cart wheel under my feet and pushed the horse. I died with the taste of blood and the name of the woman who ruined my family on my lips.
Now I was back. I was six years old again, in a small body that could still climb fences and run faster than any servant expected. But I remembered the other life — the cold room, the panic, that oily official who laughed as he helped the housewives make my death look like an accident. I remembered the red bead my mother tied at my throat. I remembered one promise.
"I will not let them take you again," I told Constance. "I will take us back."
Constance Chen's hand trembled on mine. "Kora, child—"
"I am Kora Wright," I corrected, and I leaned closer. "I am your son. My name is Kora. I will be the heir. Tell no one."
She swallowed. "You call yourself a son?"
"I will be what you need me to be," I said.
"Don't be foolish." She tried to laugh. "You are my girl."
"A boy gets the house back," I said. "A boy gets the money. Let me be a boy."
She closed her eyes like she was praying. "If you can."
I learned fast. I lifted buckets, I ran for wood, I learned to make my voice small like a quiet bell. I learned the angles of a world that pays attention when men are present. I learned the house rules and the names of dangerous people — especially Legacy Dudley.
Legacy Dudley was the woman who had wed my grandfather's house to herself. She wore silk like a boast and smiled like a trap. She was the one who had given my mother the letter that said she had been "dismissed by the head of house" after my father died. She had planted lies. She had sat in my grandfather's hall in my place. She had laughed when the house cleared us out.
"She will never be taken in by you, little wolf," Constance had whispered the night I nearly died.
I was not small for long.
"You need to calm down," said Boden Young, the steward. He was kind in the way old men can be kind — blunt, slow to trust, but steady. "Master Goddard wants his grandson groomed before the guests arrive. Eat something."
"I already ate," I lied, and I pocketed a coin. I would need money.
"You will wear the old boy's coat," Boden said. "It is cut for a little boy. You will wear it like you own it."
"I always wear it like I own it," I answered.
Boden looked at me with new patience. He saw the memory in my eyes and, for reasons I still do not know, he decided to protect me.
"A word," he said. "No foolishness in front of the lady."
"Promise," I said. I would lie if I had to.
Weeks passed. I learned to read the ledger with the stubborn taste of hunger. I learned to sew buttons and to count silver. I learned to sneak to the kitchen at night and watch Constance sleep. I learned to be small so the world would not notice the machine that was waking up inside me.
Then I saved a boy.
He was a lord's son, pale as if he belonged to winter. His carriage had slid on the bridge. The horse had panicked. I climbed onto the animal and stopped it with hands that had been given new strength. I pulled him from the carriage while the driver swore and the snow ate the road.
"Who are you?" he croaked, coughing as he tried to speak. His voice was scratchy, like a page on a desk.
"Name's Kora," I said. "Don't die."
"My steward?" he said, looking at the tall man beside him. The tall man's face was hard. "Who taught you needles?"
I had learned one saving trick in my other life — the probing of a pulse, the pinch of a finger where a deer will go limp. "My teacher," I said. "Healers in my home."
"You saved me," the boy whispered. "You should have…"
"Saved you?" I echoed. I had no time for courtesy. "You owe me a favor. Your man needs to find my driver. If he does not, I will not go back and my mother will die."
He blinked, slow like frost melting. "If you insist, I will help."
"Good," I said.
The boy's name was Ford Perry. He spoke my name with the kind of curiosity that means the world will perform small favors for you if you stand still. He fell ill, and I brought him to Eleazar Cochran — the healer who kept secrets in a small hill village. Eleazar took me in like a stray and took me up like a student.
"Follow me," the old doctor said, and he let me roll herbs and learn to steam and coax a fever out of a chest.
"You want to be a scholar or you want to stitch flesh?" Eleazar asked.
"I want to make people fit," I said. "I want to make my mother well. I want to make the woman who lied to us pay."
Eleazar smiled for the first time since I returned to life. "Then you will begin."
I studied like the hungry. I learned about herbs that warm, herbs that purge, points on the body you hit like a key to open a secret door. I learned the way to make a man sweat out a poison so his lungs will clear. I learned to read a pulse like a clock.
Back at the house, Legacy Dudley and her daughter — Franziska Ellison — continued to rule. Franziska would slap servants and place blame like darts. Joann Clay, the woman's chief maid, loved to spread the sharpest gossip. And Garrison Sun, the slim official who ruined my mother's life, still walked into the house like a victor carrying a public scent.
They had been comfortable for years. They had forgotten that bones remember.
"Your grandson is tiresome," Legacy told my grandfather once. "He lacks dignity."
"You were never meant to stay," I whispered to Constance, who stirred soup with a trembling hand. "They think we are soft."
"Quiet child."
They were not quiet for long. My little schemes made holes in their armor. I made Franziska trip in the hallways; I let Joann Clay's pet monkey steal a lace and leave it where everyone could see. I taught my sister how to cook — and then sold one bowl to a noble's steward for five silver.
"Five silver!" Constance gasped.
"We will buy warmth," I said. We bought coal. We bought medicine. We bought the barley we needed to make enough porridge to keep a lung from sinking.
That day the house called for a feast. A visiting official — an inspector — was due. The hall would fill with guests. Legacy Dudley had arranged for it to be a show: a ribbon, a loud proclamation of the family's unity, and a presentation of the "worthy heir" she insisted I become.
They meant to keep me in my place.
I meant to break them.
"Be perfect," Boden said. "If you do anything the lady can use, you are dead."
"I will be perfect," I said.
The hall filled with people: merchants, small officials, the two inspectors from the town, other landholders, and the cooks who came with baskets. Ford Perry's retinue was there too. Ford himself watched with a quiet mouthful of questions, like he wanted to know whether I would act or weep.
Legacy Dudley took her place beside my grandfather, pearl at her throat and a smile like an offered trap.
"Welcome," she said, all honey and winter.
"Welcome," the guests echoed.
Then I began.
I called for the ledger.
"Why is that child asking for the ledger?" Franziska sneered.
"Because we keep nothing secret from the house," I said. "Because I will read who took what."
"Child," Legacy said, with that old smooth anger. "Sit."
"I will not sit while my mother's name is misread," I said. "I will speak. I will be loud."
Someone in the crowd laughed. Another looked at the ceiling. Ford Perry sat up like he had been poked awake.
"Read it," my grandfather said.
I opened the ledger right where a fat roll of paper had been slipped — a bill with forged marks on it, written with a cold hand. I had found it weeks before, wrapped under the housemaid's mattress. It had a signature number that belonged to Garrison Sun. It had a date, and it had the name of the official who had signed the letter that made my mother an outcast.
I turned to the largest guest and I said, "The signatures are false. The orders that drove my mother from her bed were forged. Here are the copies."
I had already prepared the copies. Ford helped. Eleazar had given me a quill and an eye for truth.
"How dare you!" Legacy hissed. "You brat are making accusations. Who taught you this insolence?"
"An old man taught me medicine," I said. "An old woman taught me to be kind. The rest I learned by watching you step on people."
Joann Clay had gone pale.
Garrison Sun's face changed to a color like old paper. "This is slander."
"Is it?" I said. "Ask your own writing clerk. Ask the taxman who wrote the ledger. Ask the steward."
People looked at each other. The stir in the hall was a small storm.
"Play the tape," I told Boden. "Or read the letters aloud."
Boden stood. He was old but he had a steady voice. "I was told to keep quiet. I will speak the truth now."
He read line by line. He read the signature. The room hummed like a hive.
Garrison's smile fell.
"No!" he cried. "You have no proof!"
I had more than proof. I had a merchant from the county, a leather-mark man, a witness who had been in the office when the forged stamp was made. He had been paid to be quiet.
I called him forward.
"You forged my mother's name," I said to Legacy. "You paid him to sign my death warrant."
Legacy's face froze. "You lie," she said.
I had Ford step forward. He was quiet, then he spoke, "I was saved by this child on the bridge. She told me where to go to save my life. The same house arranged my passage with the same man. I saw the papers."
"Garrison, you traitor," someone shouted. "How dare you bring disgrace to the house."
Garrison's jaw twitched. He was used to hiding behind documents and officials. He had taken favors and bought loyalty. He had built a small kingdom of signatures.
"Stop!" Legacy screamed. "You have no right—"
"Speak," I said, quiet now. My voice was small but sharp as a blade. "You told my mother she was useless. You took the paper and used your office to make her leave. You took our silver. You let them starve. You said a woman who cannot give a son is a stain. You called her bone for the dogs."
"Garrison!" Legacy sobbed, but her voice was thin.
The steward clapped his hands. "The house will arrest him," he said.
"Arrest?" Garrison licked his lips. "On whose authority? You will ruin your own house. You cannot do this without proof."
"Proof?" I said and looked at the guests. "Look at the ledger. Look at the signatures. Look at the stamp."
Joann Clay had been quiet until then. She had tightened her jaw and scrubbed her fingers. "I did what I had to," she said suddenly, voice like paper. "She paid me. She wanted in. I did it for money."
"Joann!" Legacy cried.
"She told me to put the ink on the wrong side," Joann said, "then to hide it. I did what I was paid to do. She paid me to do it."
The crowd gasped. People began to murmur. The merchant who had been bribed clutched his own head.
"This is a scandal," one noble said. "I've never seen a family so rotten at the root."
"Legacy," my grandfather's voice cut like an iron bar. He had watched his own memory turned over. "Explain."
I paused to make sure every eye watched the woman in silk. She had always used her child's laughing to hide her appetite.
"You are a liar," I said. "You stole my mother's name. You stole our life."
She looked around. Her face had become tight as cloth.
"Not true!" she screamed. "You are a butcher's baboon!"
The hall laughed, but it was cruel. I wanted the scene to be worse for her. I wanted every person to know how she had smiled while we went hungry.
"It is true," I said. "We have witnesses. We have the ledger. We have the stamped false note."
They pulled Joann outside. She had to walk through the companions. A man near the doorway took out a hand mirror and began to film.
"Stop filming!" she begged, but the crowd wanted the chore. They wanted proof. They wanted to see the face of a woman who had used a signature to kill.
"Garrison," I said. "Stand."
He tried to step back, as if the room were a flood. As if water could drown an old official.
"Do you deny forging the orders?" I asked.
He blinked. "I had no direct hand."
"Then whose hand did you use?"
His fingers were cold. "I was told the paper would secure the house's future."
"Who told you?" I pressed.
Legacy looked like an animal. "It was me," she spat. "I did what I had to."
The room changed then. The merchant squeezed a handkerchief, and the steward's hand shook with a new anger.
"Legacy Dudley," my grandfather said, "have you anything to say?"
She opened her mouth and closed it like a gasp. "I did what I had to for my children," she cried. "I had nothing. The house would have fallen."
"You had everything," I said. "You had me. You had my mother. You took our name and you crushed us beneath your foot."
She stepped forward, suddenly small. Her daughter flinched like a puppet. Joann's eyes were wild.
"Please." Legacy's voice broke. "Please, I—"
"Beg for it," someone in the crowd said.
"Beg?" she whispered. "Beg what?"
"Beg for mercy," said a guest. "Beg before the world."
She looked up. Her face was suddenly that of a woman who had been in many halls but had never been asked to kneel.
"Kneel," my grandfather said.
She would not kneel at first. She circled like a trapped fox. Then she fell down, her silk rustling against the boards.
"Do you ask for mercy?" my grandfather asked.
"Yes!" she wailed. "Yes! I was poor. I—"
"Then say it," I said. "Say the names of those you hurt."
She began to babble. "I gave them paper. I bribed him. I thought it would be better. I thought—"
"Shut up," I said.
She looked up, and for the first time her mouth had no tongue.
"You ruined my mother's life," I said. "You starved us. You let a man come into our house and laugh as he made us go. You have eaten at my child's bed like a vulture."
She trembled. "I am sorry."
"Not enough."
The steward had already done what people in a crowd will do. They took her jewel pins, her silk, and her fans. They flicked her like an insect. They roped her with a length of cord and made her stand.
"Public apology," someone called. "Let the villagers have their say."
"Let her beg," another one said.
She looked like a thing unmade. She tried to reach for pity. "Goddard—" she said to my grandfather. "Please. For our children."
"You crushed my family," my grandfather said. "You will not walk with your head high in my house."
They forced her out into the courtyard where the small square filled with people. They had been summoned by a runner with the cost of spices and rumors — once a rumor starts it is cheaper than a coin.
They made Legacy walk to the foot of the main hall steps. Her daughter watched, tears already dripping. Joann clutched a handkerchief.
"Bring out the ledger," someone said. "Put it on the steps."
The ledger lay open where I had left it. The crowd leaned in. There were more witnesses now: laborers, bakers, the cart maker who had fixed the wheel we broke, and the taxman who had been bribed.
"Say it," the crowd chanted. "Say what you did."
Legacy's face was an ashen mask. "I—" she began.
"Who paid you?" someone shouted.
"Garrison!" another voice called.
He could no longer hide. He had lost more than reputation; the legal paper he had used had his many marks. He stumbled back, eyes dry.
"Do you deny forging the orders?" the steward asked again, but with more force.
Garrison put his hands forward and broke down.
"Please—" he said. "I only did what they asked. I was bribed. I thought a house that survives will keep my name safe."
The crowd hummed like a hive. The bakers spat.
"Beg," someone hissed.
He fell to his knees, then Legacy followed. Joann sank onto her knees too. The world held them while they fell.
"Forgive us," Garrison sobbed. "Forgive me."
The crowd laughed then, low and cruel. They had wanted to see a crown taken down. They had wanted to cut a vine.
"Beg for forgiveness, and I will decide what to do," my grandfather said.
Legacy grabbed Garrison and pressed her face to his back, clawed at his shoulder like a child frightened of thunder. She pounded the boards with her fists. "Forgive us," she screamed. "I will make amends. Take money. Take my jewels. Take my life."
The crowd circled, some drew their knives, some held back. Someone took a long strip of red cloth and tied it around Legacy's neck like a stallion's tag. Another took pictures on the new device, the one that records and sends.
"Tell them," the steward said.
"They kept us," Joann cried. "They paid me to sign. I have nothing but shame."
The crowd hissed and began to shout for justice. They wanted spectacle. They wanted to feel the weight of wrong.
"Will you walk into every market," one man called, "and tell them you stole a family's life? Will you stand in the square for three days and tell your truth?"
"Yes!" they cried. "Yes!"
And so Legacy Dudley, Garrison Sun and Joann Clay were led into the market. The baker spat on their shoes. Children threw pebbles. A woman with a sharp voice asked the pair to sing their confessions. They tried at first to murmur apologies. Then they were jeered. People took out papers and drew them for the posterity of shame. Men shouted that they should be thrown in the stocks. Others said that the law would call for a case — that was a slow thing; the market's anger was fast.
They begged.
"Please!" Legacy knelt and grabbed a passerby's sleeve. "Please, my children— please!"
Her voice broke into a thin wail.
"I have no more to give," Garrison sobbed, hands cold with sweat. He looked like a man who had finally found the floor beneath his crown.
Joann's chin quivered. "I am sorry."
The crowd turned its back and spat, and the sounds were like little stones thrown into a quiet pond. They took off the family jewels and auctioned them for the poor whom Legacy had once stared down. They posted the ledger in the market square for three days and hung the names in red ink. They recorded the apology and spread it.
They had to be made to feel small.
I watched them beg. I watched Franziska hide her face in a shawl. I watched Ford Perry stand back, unease in his eyes.
When it was done, there was a thin silence like wind after a storm. My grandfather looked at the three, then at me.
"You wanted them to be punished," he said.
"They will not be killed," I said. "They will be shown to be weak, so no one will copy them."
He nodded and touched my hair. "You are wise for one so young."
I smiled then, though my heart had been a drumbeat of cold. The crowd dispersed. People would retell the story and the ledger would sit on tables like an unwanted coin.
We had won the first battle.
But victory is a road with many turns. The woman still had influence. The official still had papers hidden. I still had to find the proof that the bribe had been paid abroad. There were more men to be humbled. There were more signatures to uncover. There would be marriages and sales and an attempt to buy our silence. I could see them work the ropes from the inside.
At night, when the hall had quieted and the courtyard's lamps seemed like distant moons, Boden came to the small room I was given.
"You did well," he said.
"Not yet," I said. "There is more. Garrison's men have names. He has accounts. He used the explanation of 'saving the house' to justify theft. We need witnesses."
Boden hummed. "We will get them. We will show every man what it means to be caught."
"You will tell my mother what she was," I said. "And you will give her back the house we were sold out of."
Boden bowed. "It will be done."
I lay awake that night thinking of the red bead at my throat, the one that glowed when death touched me. I thought of the man who had laughed when I went still. I thought of the little sister I could not recover yet. I thought of the ledger's weight and how a single paper can lower a heart.
"Tomorrow," I whispered to the black.
"Tomorrow," Boden answered.
They begged. They were humiliated. They begged under the open sky. The market remembered. Their names would not buy them back their honor.
I had more to do. I had to make sure that every friend who had turned his face away would know the cost of a signature.
The next day I began to hunt.
The End
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