The acrid stench of stale ale and unwashed bodies prickled Sela’s nostrils, dragging her from a dizzying haze. Her head throbbed, a dull, insistent drum against her skull. Disorientation clouded her vision, but the cacophony of voices, sharp and mocking, cut through the fog. “Look at her,” a reedy voice shrieked, laced with cruel delight. “Old Man Corwen’s shame-faced daughter, back on the market after running off with that grifter from Fallow’s End!” Laughter, coarse and booming, erupted around her. Sela flinched, her shoulders hunching instinctively. Her fingers, trembling slightly, clutched at the rough weave of her borrowed tunic. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to make the faces, the noise, the shame, disappear. But the jeers continued, pressing in on her like a physical weight. “Thought she’d be swanning about with a rich merchant now,” another voice cackled, “instead of being sold off like a scrawny goat for a bag of kruns!” Sold off. The words landed like a blow, stealing the last vestiges of her mental fog. Sela’s eyes snapped open, wide and unfocused. She was in the Drudger’s Mug, a grimy, smoke-filled alehouse in Brimley, the kind of place respectable folk only entered out of dire necessity. And she was the spectacle. Before she could process the full implication, a hand, gnarled and surprisingly strong, clamped around her wrist. Matriarch Ona Rusk’s face, a roadmap of sharp angles and pinched displeasure, loomed over her. Ona’s eyes, pale and flinty, scoured Sela’s face with undisguised contempt. “Take it, girl,” Ona commanded, her voice a low growl that somehow cut through the taproom’s din. A chipped, cloudy glass, half-filled with the cheapest, most vinegary cider, was shoved into Sela’s hand. The glass felt cold and greasy against her skin. “Drink it. It’s done. You’re Harlan’s now. Debt settled.” Sela stared at the murky liquid, then back at Ona, then at the ring of sneering faces. Harlan’s. The name echoed in her mind, leaving a sudden wash of terror in its wake. She hadn’t dared to look at him directly yet, but his presence dominated the room. He stood a few feet away, a silent monolith of broad shoulders and muscled arms, his back to the wall. Even from her periphery, his sheer size was intimidating, dwarfing the other patrons. He wore a dark, oil-stained coat that seemed to absorb all light, and his gaze, when it occasionally flickered in her direction, was unreadable, unnervingly still. The jeers swelled again, louder now that the ‘transaction’ was complete. Someone threw a handful of dried pea pods that skittered across the floor near her feet. Sela pressed a hand to her ribs, feeling her pulse race frantically. Her throat closed, refusing air. The noise, the shame, the looming figure of her new husband, it was all too much. A cold dread seeped into her bones, threatening to paralyze her. “Excuse me,” Sela whispered, her voice barely a tremor. She pushed herself away from Ona, not waiting for permission. Her legs felt like jelly, but she stumbled through the maze of wooden tables and patrons, her only goal the small, dark door at the back of the drinking hall – the privy. She needed to escape, even if just for a moment. She burst through the door, slamming it shut behind her. The small, cramped space reeked of mildew and human waste, but it was quiet. Blessed, blessed quiet. Sela leaned against the rotting timber of the door, her chest heaving, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She slid down the wall, curling into a tight ball on the grimy floor, burying her face in her knees. The world spun, a vortex of fear and humiliation. Harlan. The smuggler. They said he was quiet, but his silence was more terrifying than any shouting. What kind of life awaited her and Pip in that crumbling homestead with such a man? A sudden, blinding light pulsed behind her eyelids, cutting through the darkness of her despair. It wasn’t a hallucination. It grew brighter, radiating warmth, a stark contrast to the cold, damp air of the privy. Sela slowly lifted her head, inhaling sharply. Before her, shimmering in the gloom of the tiny room, was a door. It wasn’t the wooden privy door, but a mental construct, impossibly pristine and glowing with an ethereal white light. It shimmered like heat haze, yet it felt utterly real, beckoning. Cautiously, Sela reached out a trembling hand. Her fingers passed through the solid air, and then, with a silent *whoosh*, she was no longer in the Drudger’s Mug. She stood on polished linoleum, surrounded by towering aisles of food. Bright, fluorescent lights hummed overhead, illuminating shelves stacked high with colourful, modern packaging. The air smelled of disinfectant and fresh produce, a scent so alien, so *clean*, it made her head spin. It was the ‘Primal Pantry’ – her old supermarket. It was real. It was here. Her panic attack, it seemed, had unlocked something. Something miraculous. A sudden, fierce protectiveness surged through her, overriding the fear. Pip. Her sweet, loyal Pip. She needed to protect her, to feed her. This was the answer. This was salvation. Sela scrambled to her feet, glancing around with wonder, darting from shelf to shelf. So much food. So much *choice*. She hadn’t seen fresh meat in months, not since the rations had tightened further. Her gaze landed on a refrigerated display. There, nestled among trays of other packaged goods, were sausages. Plump, glistening, perfectly pink sausages, sealed in a pristine plastic pack. Her hand shot out, grabbing a pack, then another. Her mind raced. What else? Fresh fruit. Pip loved peaches. She spotted a bin overflowing with them, their fuzzy skins blushing red and gold. She scooped up a handful, burying them in her coat pocket. The sausages followed, tucked securely inside the lining of her tunic. The cold weight of them was a tangible comfort, a promise. Just as she finished, the glowing door flickered and vanished, leaving her back in the putrid darkness of the privy. The familiar stench washed over her, grounding her. The noise from outside, muffled but present, pressed in once more. She was still in Brimley, still married to a smuggler, but now she had a secret. A very powerful secret. Suddenly, the privy door burst open with a splintering thud. Sela gasped, freezing in place. Harlan Rusk filled the doorway, his massive frame blocking out the last sliver of light from the hall. His shadow stretched long and menacing over her. His face, usually unreadable, held a flicker of something Sela couldn’t quite decipher. His eyes, dark as the deepest well, narrowed slightly as they fixed on her. “What are you hiding under there?” he rumbled, his voice low and gravelly, like stones shifting in a riverbed.

The Cider Glass and the Glowing Door