Another fanfic, Tonker/Lofty
Roasted Chestnuts
The house burned down. And for once, Magda wished its owners had burned with it.
They’d whipped Tilda so hard she bled. And they’d done worse. She was down with a fever now; the cuts on her back were infected. Tilda lay on the bed, drifting in and out of consciousness. Her mind was full of fever dreams. Magda was supposed to be in her own bed, but the Matron only checked the dormitory twice a night. So she sat beside Tilda and held her hand.
“Magda?” Tilda asked, sounding almost lucid.
“Yes, dear?”
“Can I have some roasted chestnuts?” It was the voice of a child, the child Tilda had never been allowed to be.
“Yes you can. Someday. I promise.” Magda clutched the hand tight.
“Good. They smell good. Magda?”
“Yes?”
“I dreamed of a city… streets paved with freedom.”
“Someday, I’ll take you around the world. Sleep now.” Magda kissed Tilda’s forehead, softly.
Tilda slept. Magda kept watch against nightmares, and hatched plans in her anger-ridden mind.
…
“Magda, you shot him! We weren’t supposed to hurt anybody!” Tilda complained.
“Just a flesh wound. He was chasing us. Besides, we both done worse in the war.” Magda argued.
They reached their hiding place, an abandoned barn.
“What shall we do next?” Tilda asked.
“How about… some travelling?” Magda suggested. The bags of money felt reassuringly solid under her hands. But she dropped them on the floor when Tilda started to take off her disguise.
…
Quirm had been wonderful, Genua had been exotic. Lancre had been amusing, and Sto Helit restful and calm. Now they were in Ankh-Morpork. Tilda wore a pretty dress in orange, and Magda wore a gentleman’s suit. They stopped when Magda saw a street vendor selling roasted chestnuts. She bought Tilda a bag of them. Tilda smiled. “You remembered.”
For a moment, all was bliss.
Then someone tried to steal Tilda’s purse.
In the resulting chaos, the chestnut-seller's cart was turned over.
Three hours later, they were on the road out of town. The air was full of smoke and falling sparks.
Magda had to drag Tilda along, otherwise she kept turning around and stopping to look behind at the biggest fire she’d ever seen.
A passerby in wizard’s robes muttered to a box on legs: “It was about time the city burned down again, anyways.”
The house burned down. And for once, Magda wished its owners had burned with it.
They’d whipped Tilda so hard she bled. And they’d done worse. She was down with a fever now; the cuts on her back were infected. Tilda lay on the bed, drifting in and out of consciousness. Her mind was full of fever dreams. Magda was supposed to be in her own bed, but the Matron only checked the dormitory twice a night. So she sat beside Tilda and held her hand.
“Magda?” Tilda asked, sounding almost lucid.
“Yes, dear?”
“Can I have some roasted chestnuts?” It was the voice of a child, the child Tilda had never been allowed to be.
“Yes you can. Someday. I promise.” Magda clutched the hand tight.
“Good. They smell good. Magda?”
“Yes?”
“I dreamed of a city… streets paved with freedom.”
“Someday, I’ll take you around the world. Sleep now.” Magda kissed Tilda’s forehead, softly.
Tilda slept. Magda kept watch against nightmares, and hatched plans in her anger-ridden mind.
…
“Magda, you shot him! We weren’t supposed to hurt anybody!” Tilda complained.
“Just a flesh wound. He was chasing us. Besides, we both done worse in the war.” Magda argued.
They reached their hiding place, an abandoned barn.
“What shall we do next?” Tilda asked.
“How about… some travelling?” Magda suggested. The bags of money felt reassuringly solid under her hands. But she dropped them on the floor when Tilda started to take off her disguise.
…
Quirm had been wonderful, Genua had been exotic. Lancre had been amusing, and Sto Helit restful and calm. Now they were in Ankh-Morpork. Tilda wore a pretty dress in orange, and Magda wore a gentleman’s suit. They stopped when Magda saw a street vendor selling roasted chestnuts. She bought Tilda a bag of them. Tilda smiled. “You remembered.”
For a moment, all was bliss.
Then someone tried to steal Tilda’s purse.
In the resulting chaos, the chestnut-seller's cart was turned over.
Three hours later, they were on the road out of town. The air was full of smoke and falling sparks.
Magda had to drag Tilda along, otherwise she kept turning around and stopping to look behind at the biggest fire she’d ever seen.
A passerby in wizard’s robes muttered to a box on legs: “It was about time the city burned down again, anyways.”