Little Saint Bride [Death and the Maiden, #1]

Chapter Seventeen: The Gift of a Chelsea Bun

One minute I'm soaking wet from falling from a cliff and down a waterfall,  the next I'm in a murky street. Go figure. 

Snow is covering my worn leather boots. I'm wearing that old second-hand coat that's several sizes too big for me, but was always the most comfortable item of clothing I owned. My hair is frizzing, running down over my front, and my breath comes out before me in sizable wisps of white air. All of this I take in within those first few seconds, thinking, 'What happened before I was here?'

My nose is bright red. I can tell as I screw up my face, pondering what I was doing in this side of town. Whichever side this is, of course. The dull grey flats are no indicator; I could be anywhere in the poor backstreets of Minoa. A crackling lamp flickers on, blurry in the snowfall, signalling night's approach. 

I feel the need to hurry, so I start to move, snow crunching underfoot. The grey street doesn't seem to end, with each building having the same boarded-up entrance and empty look in the windows. There's only a light in the distance, the alley carries on for so long.

I keep walking towards it. The cold of the snowflakes on my cheeks is sharp, like a kiss, and I speed up, hoping to warm up. 

I nearly stumble over a figure in the road.

Blinking, it's not hard to see why I missed that there's a person by my feet. They're huddled in grey blankets that camouflage against the grey stone slabs of the buildings, and blend nicely with the sleet along the grey stone floor. Only the tiny stream of smoke exhaling from their mouths signals that there's a real, live person here, and not a boulder. A city boulder, that is. 

That probably doesn't exist, a logical voice in my head says. 

 Damn that voice.

The rags move, and a pair of eyes stare out at me, large and brown. 'Will y' share y' food with me, miss?' the voice behind the rags mumbles.

My automatic response is to say that I don't have any, when I notice that the pockets of my coat are full.

I frown; when did this coat have pockets? Sliding my hand into the left one, it's filled with soft, sticky--

Bread! I yelp inwardly, my fingers pulling out a perfectly currant filled bun. 

Just the one. 

I'm not hungry, but aren't Chelsea buns my favourite? 

They're delicious. That sleek brown top, seductive icing...my fingers ache to bring it to my mouth. Twitching, I feel them pulling the bun upwards, until I can smell that freshly baked bread smell.

But you're not hungry, logic tells me. Why are you eating?

Particularly when this person has no food.

Scowling, I pull the Chelsea bun away before I can change my mind and toss it to the homeless person. 'Here, have this. They're my favourite. Eat it before I do.'

The rags scoop up the offering gratefully, and I sigh at my conscience. Seeing the Chelsea bun disappear beneath the folds of the person's hood makes me feel better about my choice, although I can almost taste that lovely sweet pang of the bun.

 Turning, I notice that instead of endless houses, the road end greets me in front. 

Great, I think, Time to find some civilization--

Ahead I find my school, and I scream inwardly. That's not what I meant by civilization.

With nowhere else to go but forwards, I walk with a heavy step up towards my school. Old school, I remind myself.