Ahead of him was the dirt road, and to his right a shop with reddish walls and an open front. Vibrant paintings on pulled canvas lined its countertops, and a portly man shuffled through the space—an artist, the most prominent in all of Thessen. He stopped to wipe his brow before looking out at the road—at Tobias—and a soft smile crept across his face, the kind that held a hint of sadness. Of pity.
Tobias nodded, then made his way down the dusty dirt road.
The two-mile walk seemed especially long, making the uphill climb more taxing than usual. Finally his home appeared in the distance, small and bland like every other cottage in his village, with plaster walls and a hazel thatched roof. It was the very last cottage on the hilltop, and while the trek to and from was inconvenient at best, the view was a worthy consolation; endless sky consumed his vision, now the color of apricots as the sun disappeared from the horizon. With a grunt, he opened the door of his cottage and made his way inside.
The smell of boiled something filled his nostrils. Two women hovered by the fire, one older with olive skin and brown hair streaked with grey, the other young and slight with a dark braid hanging down her back. The older woman spun toward him, wiping her hands down the front of her dress before scurrying his way.
“Tobias!” She pulled him close, giving him a firm squeeze and a firmer kiss on the cheek. She grimaced. “My God, you reek.”
“Good to see you too.”
“And I swear, you’re as bronzed as the Ceres fountain.” She grabbed his chin and examined his face. “You must keep out of the sun. Your skin will turn to leather.”
“A consequence of the job, Mother.”
“Well, no one told you you had to work today.”
Tobias dug the coin purse from his pocket and placed it in her palm, folding her fingers over its lining. “Blessed Day.”
His mother wavered, her stare reflecting her competing guilt and gratitude. She cupped his cheek. “You’re too good to us.”
“Impossible.”
Tobias peered over his mother’s shoulder at his sister, who sat beside the fire, stirring a wooden spoon through whatever it was they were to be eating that night. She turned to Tobias, a knowing grin on her face.
“Blessed Day,” she cooed.
Tobias’s eyes widened. “You’re cooking?”
“She’s cooking!” His mother scampered to her side and clutched her shoulders. “Naomi was a great help today, very productive.”
“But cooking? That’s just cruel. She’ll poison us all.”
“Oh, shut up, Tobias,” Naomi said. “You’re one to talk.”
Tobias chuckled. Naomi was older than him but only by minutes; twins weren’t common in these parts, making Tobias and Naomi a known anomaly in their village. They had the same sharp cheekbones, the same full lips, but their most distinct likeness was their eyes: large and black like wells of ink, and while their mother argued they were brown in the light, it was surely the darkest shade of brown either had ever seen.
Naomi glanced up at him as if she sensed his staring. “Do I look silly?”
She sat in a wooden chair layered with cushions that lifted her high enough for her to reach over the fire. And though Tobias tried not to, he couldn’t help but notice her feet, which were stiff and greyish from lack of use. Perhaps her legs were just as withered.
He smiled. “You can’t look silly. You look just like me.”
“Oh, then I must look awful.”
“Quiet, both of you.” Their mother wedged herself into the kitchen. “Tobias, wash up. Before you attract flies.”
“Funny,” Tobias scoffed. “Hilarious, really.”
He navigated his way through the space, weaving around their wooden table and past the crowded kitchen with an acquired agility. The cottage was cramped, a single room functioning as many: the entryway was a dining room barely comfortable for three, and behind that was the sitting room—a lone wooden chair resting atop a faded rug. In the back were three small beds, two on the left and one on the right, as if the division could somehow create the illusion of privacy. It didn’t.
Tobias stationed himself in the corner beside the only window the cottage had to offer. A ceramic pitcher and basin sat on its ledge, and he pulled his shirt overhead before washing his hands, chest, and face, digging his fingers into his skin as if the filth had traveled beneath his flesh. He plopped the pitcher into the basin and shook himself like a dog, his mop of hair sending water splattering in every direction. Still, he didn’t feel clean. These days, he never did.
Dinner was nearly ready, and Tobias hurried to his bed, plucking a clean shirt from his sheets and sliding it on. It was identical to the one he had just been wearing, the same bland, cream color, sleeveless and faded. A varying wardrobe was of little use to a laborer, so Tobias wore the same shirts, the same leather sandals, the same brown harem pants, fitted in the legs and loose in the lap, day after day.
His shoulders tensed. A line of canvas rolls were leaning against the foot of his bed, yellowed with age, and beside them sat a pile of loose, brittle paintbrushes. He should’ve thrown them out a long time ago, but a voice in the back of his mind insisted he wait just one more day, then another, and another. He turned away.
The table was set bearing slightly more food than usual. Naomi waited by the fire, fiddling with her pot of boiled something—potatoes, most likely—and instead of their similarities, Tobias saw their subtle differences that had only emerged these past two years. Their wavy, chocolate-brown hair had once looked identical, but now Naomi’s was muted, while Tobias’s shined with hints of gold in the sun. And their skin, once a matching shade of olive, was now at opposition: Naomi’s was pale, while Tobias’s was warm and tan. The change was a product of their circumstances—a reflection of how different their lives had become.
Tobias hunched down beside his sister. “Ready?”
“Not quite.”
“That’s unfortunate.” He threaded his arms around her and hoisted her from her seat, sending her squealing and throwing her arms around his neck.
“Toby!” She smacked his head with her wooden spoon. “You ass!”
He laughed. “I prefer ass over Toby.”
She tightened her grip on his shoulders, but he kept his hold loose, gentle. He had learned to pay special attention to her body, to treat her as fragile without her knowing. From the waist up she was warm and vital, and from the waist down she was a bag of bones, her legs hanging limply from his arms. He hoped one day he’d grow accustomed to her new body—that his heart wouldn’t break when he touched her—but that day hadn’t yet come.
Carefully, Tobias rested his sister in her seat, situating her legs before taking his place across from her. His mother was already seated, gazing at the head of the table—at the seat where her husband used to sit. For two years that seat had been empty, and for two years Tobias had caught her staring at it before each meal.
Her eyes flitted toward him, and she cleared her throat, ending her trance. She clasped her hands together and bowed her head, and her children followed suit.