• The house was quiet. Not silent, just quiet. Faint noises drifted from the centre of the village; laughter from the tavern and chatter from the people who emerged in small groups. Down the street, a baby cried and snatches of conversation from other houses wafted away on the air. And then there were the night sounds few heard and fewer cared about; the hooting of an owl, then the squeak of some nocturnal rodent. The rustle of a breeze disturbed the sleep of the fresh spring leaves, causing a woman leaving the warmth of the tavern to wrap her shawl round her that bit tighter.
    But from one house, there came no noise. The flicker of a sole candle on a table by the sole window was barely enough to reveal the silhouette of a girl, waiting. Without looking closely nobody would notice her, but that was the point. If she wasn’t noticed then she couldn’t be talked to, and the less people talked to her, the better. People only talked to her to goad her.
    Drunken shouting ripped through the quiet, piercing her head like a knife. She moved, knowing who was shouting. It was what she was waiting for. As she left the house, not bothering to shut the door, a man staggered out of the tavern. Average height, average weight, the only thing that was not average about him was the amount of ale he drank. She knew this better than anyone (except perhaps the tavern’s owner, who made much of his profit from the money spilling from this man’s hands). Two men emerged after him, quickly followed by the remainder of the tavern’s customers poking their heads out of windows or gathering in the doorway.
    “Go on Inith, you can take him,” one called.
    “And iif hee do I’ll rip ’is throat out,” the staggering man yelled in a drunken slur, shaking his fist.
    The second of the men who had followed him out pushed lightly on the drunken man’s chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. The girl groaned, and ran towards them, holding up the long skirt that village tradition required. As she reached them one of the men laughed, shouting:
    “Oh look, Little Miss Sarri has arrived to save the day. Again!” Their audience cackled and the fallen man looked round from where he was lying.
    “Why is it she always comes and takes poor Kif away when all he wants to do is play?” his companion asked, folding his arms in mock exasperation. More laughter.
    “And why is it that when there’s trouble you’re always there, Rom Judsuril?” She snapped back, helping her father up.
    “Who ‘sat?” he murmured.
    “It’s me father, it’s Sarri.”
    “Aww, doesn’t he know who she is?” jeered one of the women, who was almost falling out of a window in an effort to get the best view.
    “I can’t help but admire him,” Rom added, watching Kif being hauled to his feet. “So manly.”
    That had everyone in fits of hysteria, including the people who had just appeared on their doorsteps, spilling little pools of light onto the street.
    Making sure her father could stand, Sarri advanced on the group, light from the doorway falling onto her brown skin – another thing they tormented her about.
    “You think this is funny, do you?” Her voice was laced with pent-up anger.
    “No, of course not,” sniggered Rom.
    Sarri’s fists clenched. Her palms were getting hot, and she knew what that meant. Sarri stood trembling as the laugher started again, then spat back: “You’re pathetic!”
    Not waiting for a retort she turned on her heels and stalked to her father.
    “Who ‘sat?”
    Sighing, she replied “It’s Sarri, Father, it’s your daughter.”
    “Daughter?”
    “Yes.”
    “But I don’ have a-a daughter.” He pushed her away like she was a stranger. Sarri stood in silence, feeling her palms getting hotter again, not knowing what to do.
    Her father’s drunken rant continued: “I ‘ave a wife, a lovely wife…but I don’…I don’ ‘ave a daughter.” He looked round, puzzled. “Wh…where’s my wife? Where’s my Rosenna?”
    The villagers stood in shocked silence. Kif had never before been so inebriated that he could not recognise his own kin; that he forgot his wife’s death, so many years before. Nobody knew whether to jeer or comfort the girl. Rom seemed to be about to choose the former, but one of his companions nudged him warningly.
    Sarri just stood there, trembling more violently than before.
    “Father,” she pleaded.
    A tear rolled down her cheek. One of the kinder villagers - a plump old woman, Mrs Hudesfea - started towards her, then backed away gasping. The fists Sarri had held so tightly had loosened; releasing the heat she had desperately tried to keep hidden. Hot, red flames danced round her hands, like something from a bard’s legend.
    Seeing the terrified looks in the villager’s faces, Sarri’s despair turned to horror. She lifted her hands so she could see them. The flames were so bright that most would have flinched, but not her. Though the flames lit up the sadness on her face, and strands of her long hair were nearly touching them, she didn’t move her hands away.
    “Go,” she whispered softly to the flames. And they vanished.
    “You go!” roared her father suddenly, thinking the barely audible words were meant for him.
    “Don’t anger her,” a voice hissed.
    Contrary to their fears, Sarri showed no signs of anger. Instead, she continued to stand, silent as a statue, staring at her father. She had looked after Kif for years, since the villagers had decided that he was not worth their effort. She had worked in the fields for hours, without stopping, barely earning enough to buy food, let alone fund his copious drinking. She had taken the swearing, the beatings, the blame for her mother’s death, yet still looked after her father when he returned home late at night, covered in vomit and weeping for his Rosenna.
    It was her duty to love and care for her father, so she had been repeatedly told, though the villagers themselves did not care to have any duty towards the man who had dared to love a foreign woman, and produced a child with skin as brown as her dead mother.
    No, the village refused to have any duty towards Sarri. When she was reduced to stealing food, they did not excuse her, as they did their children, but whipped the backs of her legs, as they would an adult. When she was younger, they refused to let their children play with her, the dark-skinned drunkard’s daughter. And now she was nearing adulthood, they refused to protect Sarri from the men who grabbed her waist and breasts and other places, but complained of her ‘wild ways’ when she proved able to defend herself.
    For the briefest moment, Sarri wondered if maybe, just maybe, her powers would earn respect, even kindness from the villagers. Then she looked at Rom.
    Rom Judsuril had once played chase with her in the back streets, but now was her most frequent abuser, and chased her for far more sinister reasons. The hate in his eyes was base and terrifying, fuelled by unexplainable prejudice.
    There was nothing here except her drunkard father, and hatred. Maybe the villagers would try to drown her, as they drowned wicked sorcerers in the towns. She had to go, had to get away.
    So Sarri turned away from them, and ran. There was nothing else to do now. For years she had prayed for escape, held back by a coerced sense of duty, but now…It was better this way. Better to run. And keep running.