The Long Wait

The dust kicked up by the carriage wheels had long since settled, mingling with the common grime of the street, yet Helene remained frozen, leaning heavily against the rough-hewn stone of a tanner's shop near the southern gates. Her breath still came in ragged gasps, a painful stitch throbbing beneath her ribs from the mad sprint. The carriage, Eleanor’s carriage – it had to be – was gone, swallowed by the winding road leading away from the city, towards the hazy direction of Kolan.

Eleanor. The name echoed in the hollow space within her chest, a fragile chime against the coarse reality of her present life. Had those blue eyes, glimpsed for a fleeting second through the swaying purple velvet, truly been hers? Innocent, pretty, yet distant. Unrecognizing. Or perhaps… perhaps simply startled by the sight of a disheveled street girl chasing after nobility like a stray dog after scraps.

“Go away, child!” The coachman’s harsh yell still rang in her ears, a barb sharper than any physical blow. Child. Helene bristled, straightening slightly despite her fatigue. She was nearly sixteen winters old, a woman grown, though admittedly one burdened by hardship that likely made her appear younger, or perhaps simply more weathered than her years. She had survived things that coachman, snug in his royal livery, could likely not imagine. Yet to him, to them, she was just a nameless, bothersome child. The thought soured on her tongue like spoiled milk.

The usual bustle of the late afternoon began to reassert itself around her. Carts laden with goods rumbled past, their drivers calling out warnings or curses. Merchants hawked their wares from nearby stalls, their voices a familiar, droning chorus. A group of apprentices, released from their day's labor, jostled past, laughing loudly, oblivious to the girl pressed against the wall, lost in a moment that felt both monumental and utterly insignificant. No one spared her a second glance now that the spectacle of the chase was over. She was merely part of the city's worn tapestry again, easily overlooked.

Foolish, a voice whispered in her mind. Utterly foolish, Helene Gardiner. Chasing after ghosts in royal carriages. What had she hoped to achieve? That Eleanor would command the carriage to stop, recognize her through the grime, the eyepatch, the cheap black wig hiding the fiery hair Eleanor had once claimed reminded her of sunsets? That she would sweep Helene up and away from this life? It was the stuff of the very folktales John Merchant sometimes recounted, stories she’d learned to scoff at. Life was not a folktale. It was hard cobbles underfoot, the gnawing ache of hunger, the constant fear of being noticed by the wrong person.

She shifted her weight, her legs trembling. Hours. She could wait for hours. If they had gone out through the southern gates, surely they must return the same way? Unless… unless they were truly traveling far. To Kolan. The thought sent a fresh wave of unease through her. If Eleanor was going to Kolan, for how long? Why? The city buzzed with rumors, but none that seemed important enough for a princess’s sudden journey.

A stooped figure shuffled past, pulling a small cart piled high with rags. He glanced at Helene, his eyes rheumy and indifferent. "Waiting for someone special, lass?" he croaked, his voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement.

Helene flinched, pulling her worn shawl tighter. "Just resting," she muttered, turning her gaze pointedly towards the imposing stone gates, pretending an interest she didn't feel in the bored-looking guards stationed there. Symbols of an authority she could no longer approach, a world she no longer belonged to.

The rag-picker chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "Aye. We all rest where we can." He shuffled on, leaving Helene alone with her thoughts once more.

Her mind drifted back, unbidden, to the quiet rooms of her past. To Eleanor, patiently sounding out French words from the heavy storybook, her own fluent voice a soft melody. Les histoires de Cagia. She remembered the feel of the parchment pages, the intricate illustrations, the shared warmth as they sat on the floor, cocooned in a world far removed from this dusty street corner. She remembered Eleanor admiring her hair. ’It’s like the Fox of the Valley,’ Eleanor had said once, her voice filled with childlike wonder. ’Brave and bright.’ Helene touched the coarse black strands of the wig. Brave and bright seemed lifetimes ago.

The sun dipped lower, stretching shadows across the street. The air grew cooler, carrying the faint, unpleasant tang of the nearby canal and the smell of woodsmoke from evening fires. Doubt began to creep in, cold and insidious. They weren't coming back this way. Perhaps they had taken another route out, or perhaps they weren't returning today at all.

And John. A pang of guilt struck her. He would be waiting. His cough had sounded worse this morning, weaker. He needed the herbal concoction Jane provided, needed someone to check on him. She couldn't just stand here indefinitely, clinging to a thread of hope spun from a half-remembered face in a speeding carriage.

But what if? What if she left, and then they returned? The missed chance felt unbearable. This might be her only chance. Eleanor was her link to the past, to who she once was, perhaps the only person left who even remembered Helene Gardiner existed.

"Oi! You still here?" A gruff voice startled her. It was the tanner, whose shop wall she was leaning against. He was a thickset man with permanently stained hands and an impatient frown. "Market's closing soon. Best be off if you ain't buyin'."

Helene straightened quickly, pulling away from the wall. "My apologies," she said, keeping her voice low and respectful, the way John had taught her. The way of a commoner addressing someone slightly less common. "I was just... leaving."

She cast one last, longing look down the empty road, towards the horizon that had swallowed the royal carriage. Disappointment settled heavily in her stomach, cold and hard. Passive waiting, she realized with a sudden, bitter clarity, was not enough. It was the strategy of the powerless, of the forgotten. If Eleanor was in Kolan, or going there, then waiting here was pointless.

A new resolve began to harden within her, pushing aside the weary disappointment. If Eleanor would not come back to her, then she would have to find a way to go to Eleanor. Kolan. It seemed impossibly far, another world away, but the thought lodged itself in her mind, a tiny, stubborn seed. She needed a plan. A real plan. Not the desperate, foolish hope of a chance encounter. She needed to be closer, to find work, to find a way. She turned away from the southern gates, the fading light casting her worn figure in long, lonely shadow as she began the walk back towards the small, cramped room where John Merchant lay waiting.

As Helene turned her back on the southern gates, the imposing stone archway started looking less like an exit but more like a final, unyielding barrier. The chill of the evening air seeped through her thin shawl, raising goosebumps on her arms. Each step back towards the warren of narrow streets where she and John lived felt heavy, weighted not just by fatigue but by the doused embers of hope and the burgeoning, frightening spark of a new, near-impossible plan.

The city transformed as dusk bled into night. Torches flared sporadically on wealthier streets, casting dancing, unreliable light, but mostly darkness pooled in the alleyways and narrow lanes Helene navigated. The smells changed too; woodsmoke grew thicker, mingling with the scent of cheap stew, stale ale from taverns spilling meager light onto the cobbles, and the ever-present miasma of refuse and close-packed humanity. The laughter of the apprentices was replaced by rougher voices, furtive whispers from shadowy doorways, the occasional drunken shout. Helene kept her head down, her one good eye scanning the path ahead, her hand instinctively hovering near the small, blunt knife she kept tucked in her waistband – a poor deterrent, perhaps, but better than nothing. John had insisted.

Kolan. The word was a foreign taste in her mouth. A kingdom she knew only from John’s stories and the vague geography gleaned from maps she barely understood. It was where Princess Clover ruled, the one Edgar Chapman, Eleanor’s brother, was supposedly to marry. Was that why Eleanor was traveling there? For the wedding preparations? It made a certain cold sense. But it felt impossibly distant, a journey meant for nobles in carriages, not for girls who counted pennies scraped from selling candles and second-hand tools.

How would she even get there? Walk? It would take weeks, perhaps months. Weeks away from John. Her steps faltered. John. He was the anchor holding her tethered to this life, the only kindness she’d known since… since everything fell apart. Could she leave him? Especially now, when he was so frail? The cough that wracked his thin frame seemed to dig deeper each day. Jane’s herbs offered some relief, kept the fever at bay mostly, but Helene knew, with a chilling certainty she tried to ignore, that it wasn’t a cure.

Finally, she reached the sagging door of the small dwelling tucked away in a lane barely wide enough for two people to pass abreast. She pushed it open, the familiar scent of damp wood, old herbs, and sickness greeting her. A single tallow candle flickered on a low table, casting long, wavering shadows across the tiny, two-room space.

From the bundle of blankets on the pallet near the cold hearth, a weak cough erupted, followed by John’s voice, raspy and thin. “Helene? That you, girl?”

“Yes, John. It’s me.” She moved towards him, pulling off her wig and shaking out her braided hair, tucking the dark disguise away. The dim light caught the reddish glint of her own hair, a color she rarely let see the light of day outside these walls.

He shifted, trying to prop himself up slightly. Even in the poor light, she could see the unhealthy pallor of his skin, the way his cheekbones seemed sharper than just yesterday. “You were gone a long time,” he observed, his gaze searching her face. “Sold much?”

Helene busied herself, avoiding his direct gaze. Pouring a measure of the dark, bitter medicine into a chipped cup. “Enough,” she said evasively. “Sold those mason’s tools. Got a fair price.” She held out the cup. “Here. Time for this.”

He eyed the concoction with his usual distaste but took it, his hand trembling slightly. “Good lass,” he murmured after swallowing, grimacing. “That fellow… the mason… he seemed desperate. Glad the tools found a use.” He coughed again, a dry, rattling sound that made Helene wince. “Uncle Ian alright?”

“He’s fine. Sends his regards.” She smoothed his blankets, her touch gentle. He felt so frail beneath the coarse wool. “Did you eat the broth I left?”

“Some. Didn’t have much appetite.” He sighed, his gaze drifting towards the grimy windowpane that looked out onto nothing but the opposite wall of the alley. “This sickness… drains a man.” He looked back at her, his eyes surprisingly sharp despite his weakness. “Something’s troubling you, Helene. More than usual.”

Helene froze. John knew her too well. She couldn’t lie, not entirely, but she couldn’t burden him with the wild impossibility of her thoughts either. “Just tired, John,” she deflected, forcing a small smile. “Long day. Rude customers.” That, at least, was true. She recalled the man who had spat near her, the fury that had momentarily eclipsed her caution.

John didn’t look convinced but didn’t press. He patted her hand weakly. “You’re a good girl, Helene. Too good for this life.” His voice was heavy with a weariness that went beyond his illness. “Should have… should have more.”

His words struck a chord deep within her, resonating with the desperate longing stirred by the sight of Eleanor’s carriage. More. Wasn’t that what she craved? Not riches, perhaps, but a life where she wasn’t constantly looking over her shoulder, where she wasn’t defined by loss and hardship. A life where she could perhaps be Helene Gardiner again, not just a nameless merchant girl with a hidden past.

She sat on the edge of his pallet for a while, the silence broken only by John’s shallow breathing and the distant sounds of the city. Kolan. The idea refused to leave. It was madness. Dangerous. How would she travel? What would happen to John? Yet… Eleanor was there. Or would be. It felt like the only path leading anywhere other than this slow decline into poverty and obscurity.

Later, after John had drifted into a fitful sleep, Helene lay on her own narrow cot across the small room. The candle had long since guttered out, leaving the room in near-total darkness. She stared up at the unseen ceiling, her mind racing. She couldn’t abandon John. But perhaps… perhaps there was a way. Merchants traveled. Traders. Sometimes they hired guards, or assistants. If she could find a merchant caravan heading towards Kolan… if she could earn her passage…

It was still a fragile thread of a plan, fraught with risks she could barely comprehend. But it was something. A direction. A flicker of agency in a life that often felt entirely out of her control. She closed her eyes, not against sleep, but against the overwhelming weight of the decision. Kolan. She would find a way. She had to. For Eleanor. For John. And perhaps, most terrifyingly, for herself.

It was starting to get dark, about time to get dinner for John and herself. The meager earnings from the day – ten pennies for the tools, six from Uncle Ian’s generous, guilt-inducing purchase of her unwanted cookies, minus the cost of the eyedrops earlier – wouldn't stretch far. Meat was a luxury today, despite her earlier hopes after selling the tools. It would have to be porridge again, perhaps thickened with a few dried peas she’d saved. Not exciting, but filling. And warm. John needed warmth.

She moved quietly around the cramped space, lighting another precious candle stub. She checked the small stores they kept in a wooden box – oats, dried legumes, a heel of stale bread. Enough for a few more days if she was careful. Pouring some oats into the small, soot-blackened pot, she added water from the bucket near the door. Getting fresh water was another daily chore, one that took time she often felt she couldn't spare. She stirred the mixture and placed it carefully over the small pile of kindling in the hearth, coaxing a flame to life with flint and steel. The tiny fire offered little heat to the room but was enough to cook their meager meal.

The smell of the cooking porridge, thin and unassuming, filled the small space. When it had thickened slightly, she ladled a portion into John’s bowl, crumbling the last of the stale bread into it to give it more substance. She carried it carefully over to his pallet.

“John,” she said softly. “Dinner.”

He stirred, blinking his eyes open. He seemed perpetually tired now. She helped prop him up against the wall, arranging the thin blankets behind his back. He looked at the bowl with resignation, but took the spoon she offered.

“Thank you, Helene.” He took a small, tentative mouthful.

Helene sat on the floor near the hearth with her own smaller portion, the meager warmth of the flames barely reaching her. She ate slowly, listening to John’s quiet chewing and the occasional soft crackle from the fire.

After a few moments of silence, John lowered his spoon. “So,” he began, his voice still weak but clearer than before, “you said it was a long day. Tell me about it. Did that Uncle Ian manage to sell any of his little wooden birds today?”

Helene shook her head, scraping the last of the porridge from her bowl. “Not while I was there. He was carving a new one, though. A horse, I think. Very detailed.” She paused, the memory of the earlier confrontation surfacing, sharp and unpleasant. “The market was… difficult today.”

John watched her, his gaze steady. “Difficult how?”

She sighed, running a hand over her face. It was easier to talk about the small indignities than the large, impossible longing Eleanor’s appearance had stirred. “People were haggling worse than ever. Offering pennies for candles that cost nearly as much to make. As if I’m stealing from them by trying to earn a living.” She picked at a loose thread on her worn tunic. “And there was one man… interested in the mason’s tools. He offered eight pennies, swore he saw them cheaper elsewhere.”

“Were they?” John asked quietly.

“No! Or if they were, they must have been chipped and rusted through. These were barely used. I told him ten pennies, firm. And he…” Helene hesitated, the memory making her face flush with remembered anger. “He grew furious. Called me a… a whore. Said I was stealing. And then he spat at me, John.” The words came out in a rush, fueled by lingering outrage. “Right on my clothes. If Uncle Ian hadn’t stepped in…”

John’s hand clenched weakly on his blanket. A flicker of anger sparked in his tired eyes. “The coward. To treat a young woman so… Did Ian handle him?”

“Ian stood up. The man backed down quickly enough. He was all bones and bluster.” She spat the memory onto the dirt floor, mimicking Ian’s earlier gesture, though there was no disapproval in John’s gaze now. “But it’s not right, John! Why must people be so cruel? Just because I’m a woman? Because I’m young and trying to sell things on the street?” The frustration boiled over, raw and sharp. This was the daily reality, the constant, grinding unfairness she couldn't escape. This was why the glimpse of Eleanor, of another life, hurt so much.

John reached out, his fingers cool against her wrist. “There’s darkness in some hearts, Helene. Cruelty and ignorance often walk hand-in-hand. You mustn’t let it poison you.” His voice was gentle, but laced with a familiar weariness. He’d seen much of the world’s ugliness in his time as a trader. “You were brave to stand your ground. But be careful. Pride is a vital shield, but recklessness can shatter it. That man… he could have hurt you.”

“I know,” she mumbled, chastened but still simmering. Brave? Maybe. Or maybe just tired of being trodden on. She looked at John’s pale, drawn face, the worry etched around his eyes despite his own suffering. He worried for her constantly. How could she even think of leaving him, of chasing a phantom hope all the way to Kolan? The thought felt like a betrayal.

Yet, the memory of the man’s spittle, the casual cruelty, the assumption that she was nothing – it fueled the desperate resolve that had taken root earlier. She didn’t want this life. She didn’t want to spend her days fending off insults and counting pennies for porridge. She wanted… more. The word echoed John’s own sentiment. And ‘more’, right now, inexplicably, impossibly, pointed towards Kolan. Towards Eleanor.

She squeezed John’s hand gently. “I’ll be careful,” she promised, the words tasting like ashes in her mouth. Careful wasn't going to get her to Kolan. Careful meant staying here, watching John fade, selling candles until she was old and stooped herself. No. She would be smart. Not reckless, perhaps, but not merely careful either. She would find a way. Somehow. 

Either way, this would be a start of a long long wait.