"Oh dear."

This is not a line you want to hear from your local hedge witch, while she's telling your fortune.

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear..." the old woman mutters, as she sets her teacup down. Her hands are shaking worse than usual, and the rattle sounds like a small child with one of those countertop bells, the ones you ring when the owner is too cheap to hire desk staff.

"So I take it there's no Prince Charming in my near future?" I ask, dryly.

My Prince Charming, the merchant's son, is why I'm here getting my fortune read. The sooner he can whisk me away from this awful little hamlet, the better.

"You don't have a near future," the old woman replies, and she slides her teacup across the table, towards me.

Out of curiosity, I took the cup and tilted it towards me, looking at the bottom.

Nothing about it looks unusual. The black dregs of what was once my cup of tea sits in the middle of the luminous white porcelain, in the shape of what could be a perched bird resting on an arrow-straight branch.

"You'll die tonight. Probably about two hours after sunset. Normally, someone's last sight isn't so clear, but if you hold your ear to the cup, you can almost hear laughter," the old woman says, somehow believing that the nonsense passing her lips is an explanation.

Despite my simmering irritation, I hold my ear over the cup and listen.

Faintly, as if it were only in some distant part of my imagination, I can hear a strange, slow laugh.

"Ha..."

"Ha..."

"Ha..."

"Well," I say, indignantly. "That was an astounding waste of my time."

"Better to know how little you have left, hmm?" the old woman replies. "harder to waste time when you know how poor you are."

"I want my money back," I add, holding out my hand.

"Tell you what, missy," the old woman replies. She takes the few coins I had placed on the table and slides them along the wood until they fall into her other hand. "I'll give it back to you tomorrow."

"Twice what I paid if I'm still alive tomorrow," I say, holding out my hand. The old woman nods, and takes my hand, giving it a surprisingly firm shake.

"Best bet I've ever made," I say to her as I opened the door to her little cabin.

"The surest one, in my case," the old woman rebuts, and I can't help but scoff at her.

"Hag," I mutter as I shut the door, and wind my way down the path from the hill, careful to lift my feet over the roots and duck beneath the low-lying branches.

I whistle a tune as I walk, and twirl a little, imagining myself dancing at some lovely ball in the city, far away from the dirt and dust and smell of shit that I've grown too accustomed to in this rotten little town.

Ahead of me, somewhere in the cathedral of branches above my head, I hear a faint cry.

"Caw..."

"Caw..."

"Caw..."

Something about the sound is eerily, disturbingly familiar. It sends the hairs on the back of my neck upright and makes my teeth hurt.

I look up to search the canopy for the source of the noise, just for a moment, and my boot catches in a root I could have sworn wasn't there before. I swing forward like I didn't have legs, and hit the ground like a sack of rocks.

When my vision does return, it's hazy, and there are blank spots speckling my view, like tiny drops of water falling on my eyes. My face feels like someone used it to clean the street, and I can taste moss and dirt in my mouth.

Just ahead of me, barely out of arms reach, there's a black crow looking at me with a single, blood-red eye.

It tilts its head and hops a little closer to me. I can see my reflection in its beady red eye.

The urge to strangle the little monster was a surprisingly pleasant feeling.

"Scat!" I spit, tossing bits of moss and wet clumps of dirt out of my mouth. I fling my arm towards it, not minding at all if I were to strike the little beast.

I don't reach it, of course. The crow hops once and put itself just out of reach as my hand swings by. It lets out another mocking cry and flutters up to the branches.

"Damn bird," I mutter, as I push myself to my feet. I've ripped my dress in three different places, none of them particularly flattering. My face feels like I rested it on a grindstone, and the palms of my hands hurt as if I had slapped some overly forward traveller at the tavern.

Cursing, I struggle to my feet and make my way back to town.

As I pass the outskirts and follow the main road, I heard what has become a familiar, mocking caw. Up ahead, perched on a nearby roof, is a little black crow.

"Piss off," I hiss at it, waving my hand. It ignores me, obviously, and stares blankly in my direction.

"Move your arse!" I hear someone should from behind me, and it's only just as I turn that I start to notice the deep, rumbling clatter of hooves striking stone.

Just behind me, and gaining fast, is a team of horses pulling a carriage. Big horses, any of which could see over my head without having to rear up, and could grind me into paste if they ran me over.

I scream and throw myself to the side, barely missing the beasts as the carriage thundered past. As it passes, the carriage wheels trample through the nearby puddle, throwing the water into the air.

And onto me.

I try my best to cover my face with my hands, but the spray soaks my already ruined dress and leaves my hair a matted mess on my head.

"Puss boil on the old crow's nose!" I exclaim, just as I begin to smell what was in that water. This charming little village of ours has no running water, and the locals are inclined to dump their finished business onto the street.

Just above my head, I see the crow land on a laundry line and look down at me.

It stares down at me, and I hear its mocking cry.

"Caw..."

"Caw..."

"Caw..."

Just at the crow cries for the third time, I can see the carriage stop just ahead, and the door open.

I can only see a man's boot at first, resting on the rung that served as a step to make climbing into the carriage easier. It's a familiar boot, well polished and rising over the knee.

The dandyish fop the boot is worn by steps down and past the door, looking my way like a child who had just broken his mother's most precious possession. I might have found it cute if the scrapes on my chest weren't stinging from someone else's urine.

Of course, I couldn't say any of this to him. That dandyish fop was my salvation. My Prince Charming, soon to whisk me away from this dreary little town.

"Darling!" My peacock of a man cried out, as he runs past the carriage door, waving his hand as he approached. I smile despite myself, watching my little peacock run.

He's never really learned how.

He slips and stumbles in a smear of something horrible, but manages to hold himself upright. "My dear," he says, slightly breathless, as he approaches and tries to embrace me.

"Don't," I warn him, taking a step back. "You don't want what's on me."

"I don't care in the least, my love," he replies, his arms still outstretched.

"You don't do your own wash," I remind him.

"Neither will you, once we're married and I take you away from here," he replies. Despite myself, my stomach does a little squirmy happy dance at the thought.

"And I'll have the driver flogged," he added, as he looked back at the carriage. "He should know not to be so callous with you. I'm sure a few lashes will prove a sufficient reminder."

I smile at the thought.

"I'm sure he'll mend his ways," I reassure him. "Shall I meet you tonight, at the tavern? The innkeeper always appreciates your presence, darling."

"I imagine it's my coin he appreciates," my peacock replied won't surprising wryness. He's not normally so inclined to a darker sense of humour. "He's made a small fortune off my attempts to woo you."

True. Wooing an innkeeper's daughter requires more than just the beer she serves.

"It's certainly improved his opinion of you, darling," I reassure him. "It probably reassures his old heart that a man of means and respectability is courting his daughter."

"Ah, if he only knew my designs for you, plucking his maiden daughter," my merchant's son says, with a lustful leer.

I try my best to keep from snickering at the word 'maiden'.

My efforts are enough to keep him from noticing, thankfully. "I'll go home and get cleaned up. See you at the tavern tonight?"

"Armies couldn't keep me away," he says with a bold flourish, leaning in to kiss me.

I stepped back, and wave my hands. "I really do smell like a chamberpot, love. I'll make it up to you later."

"A promise you have yet to deliver on, my darling. This poor heart burns for you," he says, and my willpower can't restrain the snicker this time.

"Begone, rogue," I tell him. "Take your carriage and perfumed self away. Have some mercy on a lady's sensibilities and let me bathe."

He steps away, grudgingly, and marches back to his carriage. I breathe a sigh of relief, shake my head, and start on my way back home.

I manage six steps before something warm, and wet, splashes the top of my head. I gasp and cringe, and wipe at the top of my head my hand, to find it covered with a white paste very similar to an infant's vomit.

I look up and see that same black crow looking at me. I'm willing to swear the creature is grinning at me.

"Caw..."

"Caw..."

"Caw..."

Enraged, I bend down and scoop up some mud, aware that it might not be wholly mud, and fling it with every ounce of rage I can muster. In my mind's eye, I can see it strike the little beast, toppling it from its perch and forcing it to hop along the ground until it picks itself clean.

My throw is almost three feet short and falls straight back towards me.

I don't even bother to dodge as it falls in my face, splattering down my chin and helping to soak my already ruined dress. I mutter a curse, give the crow one last glare, and march the rest of the way home.

The rest of my walk home passes without incident, and I wearily haul myself up the stairs and prepare to draw a bath.

It takes nearly half an hour to both prepare the water and strip myself out of my ruined clothes, but the feeling of finally sinking into that warm water is almost worth the day's misfortune. Even the biting sting from the scrapes and cuts is a relief.

I just begin soaping my hair, lying back and drowsily letting the stress of the day evaporate with the steam, when a hard rap at the window nearly stops my heart.

With my heart hammering and my brain shut down, I scream and throw myself against the side of the tub. At that moment, there's a sharp crack below me, and the tub tips.

The tub throws me out the side, and I land on the wood with all the grace of a duck in the desert. The water sweeps in a wave to the door, where it flows through the bottom of the doorway and into the hall.

Cursing, I scramble to my feet and fetch a towel, trying to dry myself off so I can get dressed and clean up the mess.

As I towel my still soapy hair, I hear a cry from the window, and turn to see that black crow perched on the windowsill, red eyes fixed on mine.

"Caw..."

"Caw..."

"Caw..."

Furious, I make for the window in haste, and slip on the now sodden floor, barely able to keep my feet. The crow makes a slow hop to turn, and drops off the windowsill, taking to the air.

The crow leaves just as the door opens, and my father storms inside.

I scream, throwing my arm over my breasts.

"Sorry, sorry," he says, turning his back to me and covering his eyes with his hand. "I heard the crash, and your screaming."

"It's okay, Papa," I tell him, as gently as I can manage in my emotional state, while I throw on some clothes. "The bathtub broke, and tipped me out, that's all."

"We'll have to mop it up, best we can," father says, stepping back to the door. "We'll need to hurry. The place is starting to fill-up."

"Yes, papa," I hiss, venomously. This day has worn me pretty thin, and my father is a safe person to vent my frustration on. It isn't fair to him, but I'm still to angry to apologise.

He starts in the hallway, leaving me alone as I hurry to get the water off the floor. It only takes a few minutes, between the two of us, and we're soon downstairs to look after the evening rush of customers.

I'm angrier than I ought to be, and it shows in my work as I start serving drinks. Tankards slosh and spill as I set them on tables, leering eyes are met with a glare or a spilt beer.

Not all of it is my temper, as I find myself tripping over my own feet. Even my patient father could only ignore it for so long, and stopped me from picking up the second tray of drinks I dropped.

"Look, that fawning boy of yours is here. Why don't you go outside and take a walk with him? Clear your head," he suggests, as he takes a new tray and makes his way past me.

I nod in response, and sullenly make my way to the door, where I see my peacock, preening in his brightest plumage.

"My love," he says, taking my hand and kissing it.

"Father suggested we go for a walk. I think I need to clear my head," I admit to him, and let him take my arm in his as we walk down the road.

"What has you so out of sorts, darling?" He asks, as we round a few houses and make our way to the old well in the town square.

The sun had set hours ago, but the radiant, perfectly round moon illuminated the square in a wonderfully brilliant, pale blue light. Above, surrounded by stars, it was an unmarred sheet of white, like glowing porcelain.

"The misfortunes of today are over, darling. It will only get better from here," he insists, the earnest honesty in his face rendered somewhat comical by his absurdly fussy haircut.

"I know, darling. It's just the hedge-witch I saw today. And that damned..." I begin to say, just as I see a faint, black shape flutter past the moon and land on the crossbeam above the well.

The bird is coal-black and stars at me with a single beady, red eye.

"You!" I scream hysterically at it, breaking free of my companion's grasp and marching towards the well. I reach the stone edge and wave my arms frantically, hissing and throwing a handful of dust.

"Cretinous beast!" I scream at it, and step up to the side of the well, intent on knocking the little monster off his perch. My shoe reaches the top of the bricks, and just as I lean my weight on it, it crumbles.

I slip, weightless and helpless for a horrifying moment, just long enough to regret my folly before the ground hits me hard enough to push my breath out.

I gurgle and cough, unable to draw in breath or raise my hand. The world is dark, except for the moon, which fills the small portal the top of the well has left me.

"Darling!" my little peacock screams. "There's no rope; I'll get help!"

All I can see through the top of the well is the brilliant white glow of the moon, cut across with what could be a perched bird resting on an arrow-straight branch.

As my sight grew darker, I could hear a now familiar sound.

"Caw..."

"Haw..."

"Ha..."