Wren had merely almost drifted off when the wagon finally pulled to a stop. The trip hadn't taken as long as she'd thought. In fact it had only taken about a half hour, give or take, which wasn't nearly enough time for the family of spiders in her stomach to stop trying to crawl out of her mouth. The smell of dry wood and leather surrounded her in a way that was only moderately comforting. A beam of light streamed into her face and she opened her eyes.

"Time to wake up, princess."

The man who had been driving the wagon reached a hand out. His grip was almost uncomfortably firm on her arm as he held her on the way down,not that she needed any help. The smell of something rotten reached Wren's nostrils. She wrinkled her nose and looked around her. A few men in suits of leather armor sat around a crackling fire. They all took turns dipping bread into a pot of stew that boiled between them and gave off the foul smell. Wren tried not to let her revulsion show on her face, but it didn't matter because they didn't pay her any mind.

"Sellswords," the man explained. "People hire them out for work. Figure a kid like you doesn't know anything outside those scam artists that set up shop in the middle of the caravan. Bastards," he muttered.

"My parents aren't--"

"--Ever notice only rich people hang around those parts?" he said. Wren hadn't noticed at all, actually. Nothing about their  lifestyle struck her as extravagant. They ate the same boring food every day, did the same boring things. They had enough money to keep their tents in good repair and their wagon moving, but that was it. It wasn't like she was crusted in gold baubles and hanging in jewelry.

"They're scam artists, every last one of them. It's a good thing you left. Around here we don't treat each other like meat." He glanced down at her. He looked around Armand's age, with curly brown hair that fell to his shoulders. He stroked his scruffy beard absentmindedly as he talked. "You got a name? Mine's Michael."

"Wren," she replied, although she really didn't feel like talking anymore as she caught glimpses of the people around her.

Outside a nearby tent that didn't look nearly repaired enough to be dustproof, a mother dressed in not much more than rags nursed a baby who wore nothing at all. Several children wove around her ankles. One of them cried and pulled at the hem of her shirt. The child's back was blotched red with sores and burned from the sun like meat left on a rack too long. Wren winced.

"Your father will be back soon with food," Wren overheard as they passed. The woman turned her face up. Her eyes followed Wren as they passed, and Wren tried not to notice. Ahead of her was only more of the same. Families with children whose bones poked out like hangers for their skin. Tents that looked like they'd topple with the next stiff breeze. The caravan must have either been their only chance for hope or a last ditch effort to find something to sustain the children before they starved to death. Suddenly Wren knew exactly what her mother meant when she mentioned starving children in the southern plains.

Wren's stomach did another little flip flop and she looked away as the heat rose to her face. She could feel the woman's eyes on her as she passed, and yet more eyes as they wove their way deeper into this part of the caravan. She pulled the hood of her cloak up to hide her face. Were they mad at her, for having things they didn't? She obviously came from a nice home, and had a nice family. And now she was abandoning it for this.

She was careful to keep her gaze on the ground until they got to their destination. A ramshackle patchwork of cloth stood in front of her, nailed into the ground by rusty spikes that looked like they'd give in the next stiff breeze. Michael opened the flap and shoved her inside. 

An old woman grabbed her arm as soon as she entered and shoved her toward the back of the tent. Her skin was tanned and leathery from years of sun exposure, and her dark eyes watched Wren like a hungry cat. Wren tried to take a step away and the woman grabbed her face and turned it.

"Good lord, Michael, when you told me we were helping your friend I didn't know she'd be so difficult to make presentable," she tutted and let go of Wren's face. "Sit," she commanded as she pointed to a faded cushion in the corner of the room.

"I--" Wren said.

"Sit, child! We don't want someone seeing us. Get to it."

Wren scrambled to take a seat on the cushion. The woman shuffled over to a shelf, picked up a dagger, and began approaching her. Wren swallowed hard and closed her eyes.

"Oh, it's only a razor. Look at me," the woman said. Wren wondered if she intended to tell her what her name was. Wren opened her eyes and looked in the woman's direction. All at once she grabbed at Wren's hair and pulled it away from her head. Wren yelped as the woman lifted up the razor and chunks of it fell to the floor. Her eyes got watery.

"It's just hair, it will grow back. Hold your head still." Tears sprang to Wren's eyes and her face contracted as she shut them, then opened them again. The woman looked at Wren critically for a moment, then her blue eyes softened for a moment and she put a hand on Wren's shoulder. "My name is Ittra.Can you tell me what your name is?"

"Wren," she said. Her voice broke. The tears escaped her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Ittra grabbed another chunk of her hair and hacked away at it with the knife. The pile grew around her until Wren was certain her hair was gone, but Ittra did not speak. Wren wondered what her parents were up to. If they worried about her, or if they were even looking for her. She let out another small sob.

Ittra continued busying herself with the dagger as if Wren weren't doing anything at all. Every once in a while she pulled at Wren's hair a little too sharply and Wren let out a small yelp. Ittra only responded by pushing her head back into place.

"It's a lot to take in. If they would stop forcibly marrying off your women it would be easier," Ittra said after a while. "Despicable, the whole lot of them."

Wren's blood began to boil but she didn't say a word. After a while Ittra put the dagger down and picked up a bottle of what looked like sludge. Wren leaned backwards a little bit. Whatever happened she knew that was not going anywhere near her mouth.

"This is going on your hair," Ittra said, and Wren sighed in relief. "We'll let it dry, then we'll brush it out. It might sting a little."

Wren hugged her arms around her chest as Ittra massaged in the salve. It didn't sting but rather burned like wildfire. Wren couldn't bring herself to care. She ached for home more than ever. She'd give anything to see her parents again, or Armand, or even Elyn. But before she had time to think about it Ittra was pulling at her hair with a comb as Wren tried not to yelp.

"There," Ittra said. She held up a mirror. Where Wren had once had mousy brown hair nearly down to her shoulders, nearly all of it was gone and dyed a deep black. She ran a hand through it. It felt soft under her fingers. She could almost pass for a boy, if she tried.

"We need to get you a change of clothes," Ittra remarked. "We're going to dress you like a man, it'll be safer until we get to the city since we won't be moving for a while. Keep your face covered and don't wander by yourself during the day. Keep to yourself unless me or Michael tell you."

The invisible walls around Wren constricted even further. She thought back to the time just after Cain was killed. She'd hurried through the village with her face nearly always covered. Even then people had thrown rocks at her, screamed her name and jeered after her when she walked the streets. She'd been forced to stop going to school for fear that someone might exact revenge for what she'd done.

Ittra tossed a bundle of rags at her and watched expectantly. Wren flushed. She glanced around for somewhere to hide and realized with horror that there were no extra rooms in this tent. More importantly there were some holes between the fabric through which she could see a clear view of outside.

"I can't--Do I have to change here?"

"You have the same parts as everyone else, dear," Ittra said in an exasperated tone as she turned around. Wren tried not to think about it as she peeled her clothes off. She tossed the rags over herself as quickly as she could and folded her arms as if it would help her to hide better. 

"Alright," Ittra said when she'd finally turned around. She handed Wren a ragged-looking scarf made out of some sort of canvas that looked and felt like old tent material. "Keep your face covered, like I said. We'll be eating soon. You can sleep in the wagon as long as you're quiet and you keep a knife with you."

Wren tried not to let her eyes widen too much. What sort of horrible place required you to take a knife to bed with you? Suddenly she got the feeling she was far deeper in over her head than she realized. Ittra said nothing else before she was gone, outside to prepare the food presumably. 

Wren found a corner of the tent and curled up into a ball. She'd never wished more for home than now. And somehow she knew she'd never see either home again.  

    ---

Seems like Wren's life maybe wasn't as bad as she thought it was. What do you think of this new half of the caravan, and of Ittra? Feel free to tell your thoughts in the comments!