Eleven children. That's what I heard.
People could never be silenced. They would always talk.
Eleven? And how many were saved?
Does it matter? They're still mopping up the cavern; they're still scrubbing the stains from its floor, picking up pieces. There could be more.
And when one person spoke, so did another. The words spread like a brush-fire through town, easy to overhear, impossible to avoid. Talk of coming funeral services, the burning of what was left. Little children, all, like the components of some gruesome bedtime story.
A beast that eats children. From a carnival, no less! I would take the drow over that; I would take anything over that.
There were other rumors, too: had it not been for the old miller's intervention, more children would be dead; three unsavories had assisted in the slaughter of the beast; Governor Glenn Burnie and the Lady Olwak, with the assistance of the Constabulary, had looked upon the cavern killing-grounds and brought finality to the situation; a woman was in custody, that old storyteller, an accessory to the butchering--
The seamstress ran until she thought she would be sick. She had once been teased by Cherny for her inability to sprint. Despite the blisters bursting on the bottom of her feet and the hard clap of wooden clogs against pathstones, each step sending hammerfalls of pain into her heels. She never stopped. She had her dress tangled in her fingers, never letting go, never resting even when her lungs screamed at her to pause, take a breath.
I have got to go to my mathematics, she'd told him three days ago, if begrudgingly. No, if I go to the carnival with you and Mister Catch, my lessons will suffer. What -- what do you think Menna Olwak would say if I shirked my fractions for festivities and funnel-pie.
His little shack, that decrepit little hut where Cherny lived, was a blemish against the grasses in the afternoon sun. She almost stumbled, barely catching herself over her knotted legs. Dust billowed up from the path under her shoes. Somewhere, she lost a clog in the brush. The girl moved with such velocity and force that she slammed both palms against the shack's slanted front door to stop herself. A balled fist -- desperate, frightened -- drummed against the wood.
"Ch-...Cherny," she shouted, black sweat a wet mask on her face. Her cheeks were numb from the run, but the tears were still like hot needles. "Cherny, are -- are you in there? Open the door. It's Gloria -- it's me--"
Eleven children. That's what I heard.
He'd been there. He had been at the carnival.
I would take anything over that.