This short story is one of many – 78 exactly. An episodic series inspired by the traditional tarot. These stories are not meant to dictate the exact meaning of the card, but rather to embody its spirit. Enjoy today’s featured card: The Queen of Swords.

Mother worked the batter into a loaf, kneading it on the table with strong, firm hands. She pressed it, folded it, pressed it again, digging in so deep her knuckles turned white with both flour and strain. Miriam watched in humble amazement. She loved to watch her mother work, especially when flour was involved. It was a show of magical proportions. White dust sprayed the air as she lifted a hand, striking down heavy with intent to split the dough. Merge it back together. Fluff it, crush it, form it into something good. Something that would keep the Lords’ stomachs fed and hunger on the outskirts of their meeting. The cooks left her alone when she made her bread. They knew better than to interrupt the Lord’s wife’s baking, though she longed for the company. Miriam, too, would have loved to watch her mother laugh and exchange tips and tricks with the staff, but that was not aligned with father’s wishes. He preferred his women work in isolation, unfettered by the chaotic opinions of others. Talk was dangerous; Miriam had been raised to know this as she watched her mother play in the flour, silent.

“Better a woman be seen cooking, than heard hungering.” A wry smile on mother’s lips as she pressed the dough into a baking tray to be placed in the fiery oven. The fire was meticulously kept by a silent worker in the far corner of the room. He kept his back to them, not so disrespectful as to sneak a peek at the Lord’s wife and only daughter, but not so careful with his life to avoid eavesdropping. He tossed another log onto the flames. Miriam bristled with pleasure at hearing the crackle of the fire chewing at the bark.

Mother finished her preparation of the dinner loaf with a swipe of her hands onto her apron, leaving behind a trail of white powder. They exchanged a secret smile at the mess. What a sight it was, to see her ever perfectly polished mother, her father’s “porcelain doll”, as he called her, making a mess in the kitchen.

She clapped her hands once more against her apron, ridding the last of the dust from her fingers, when a visitor entered the kitchen. They rushed towards Miriam’s mother with open hands, demanding she remove the sloppy apron at once.

“We can’t have you looking like this,” Said one of Miriam’s brothers, Lincoln. Lincoln took the apron from his mother and passed it to one of the help, who’d appeared in perfect timing behind him. Snapping his fingers, he called for the cooks to return to the kitchen to commence preparing dinner. “I shall fetch us the bird,” He announced with a sincere nod.

“Father said I could fetch the bird tonight,” Miriam interrupted his attempted exit, brash and bold as ever. Her mother flashed her a warning glare.

Lincoln tilted his head at her. Though he was still shorter than her, he still managed to look patronizing. “Father was upon his second bottle that night, sister. You know it best not to hold a Lord to his drunken word.”

“Your father is never drunk.” Mother said instinctively, reflexively, as if trained to do so. “But yes,” She slowed down, “I don’t believe the Lord quite meant that with intent, Miriam. You know this.”

“I know a promise when I hear one.” Miriam stuck her chin out. Though she was only revealing this defiant attitude to her little brother and mother, and a handful of staff, they looked at her as if she had staged a war against the entire kingdom.

Mother grabbed her by the shoulders and directed her to the door. “Fine, fine,” She hurried to dismiss her daughter from the prying looks of the staff. “Fetch the bird for the cooks, but don’t you dare dally a minute.” Miriam flashed her a happy grin, and her eyes softened at the wrinkled corners. They turned hard again, “Don’t you tell your father a word of this.” She warned. “Please, my child, be reasonable.”

“Always, mother.” Miriam rushed through the castle halls, Lincoln on her heels as she got closer to the exit. She had to wait for him to catch up as the guards wouldn’t let her through without his permission. Grabbing her dress by the sides to lift it as she sloshed through the mud, she breathed in the cool bite of fresh air.

“This is always Thomas and I’s job.” Lincoln complained, longing for the company of one of his many brothers over his sole sister. “Father will have my head if he finds out I let you anywhere near the animals. They are wild, Miriam, and will leave no good impression on a fine, young woman.”

“We are all animals, Linky,” She called back to an old nickname for him from when he was still swaddled in cloth diapers. He blushed furiously at this.

“I am twelve summers old now. Please, show some respect.”

They passed by the horses in the stables and the pigs in the trough. At the last stop was the clucking of the chickens shoved into the coop. Lincoln pulled open the ratty wooden door to let Miriam in. “Make it quick. Don’t come back with a named one.”

Miriam was too busy wondering what a rush it must be to swing them by the neck and hear that brittle snap of bones to get sentimental. She looked about the shack, half-crouched, searching for the best dinner option. She stopped, spotting something highly unusual.

“Linky, Linky!” She burst out of the coop, utterly panicked. “We have to tell Father!”

“Tell him what?” Lincoln tore into a sprint after her as she raced up the path towards the castle. Her feet carried her faster than any man standing by had thought they could move. “Where do you think you’re going!” Lincoln shouted, “Father cannot be disturbed right now!”

Miriam ran passed the guards and went into the castle, tearing into the dining room through the great wooden doors. At the head of the table, Father looked up in haste. Surrounded by both friends and enemies, each head lifting from a map marked by pins to look at the breathless intruder. “Father, Father!” She cried, desperate to catch her breath.

The bearded man at the head of the table cleared his throat. “Miriam,” He said, insultingly calm in the face of her terror. “That is no way to address me. In this room, I remain your Lord.”

“My Lord!” She corrected herself, wiping the sweat from her forehead, completely without decency. “I have horrible news. The prophecy has begun, it shows in the flock!”

“What riddles does this walking womb speak of?” One of the men scoffed.

“My son, tell me what hysteria has caught your sister.” Father demanded as Lincoln entered the room, huffing and puffing.

“A stroke of sun-madness, Father, nothing more!” He insisted.

“One of the chickens bears five feet, my Lord!” Miriam exclaimed, unable to keep it in any longer. “As it is written, the fall of this age dawns upon the twentieth toe of the feathered bird. The old crone in the village was right!”

“A seer in the village?” One of the men said, “You never told us your women were poisoned, Lord. We never would have brought our men here had we known. Pray none be sullied with their disease.”

“This sickness infests his own blood. What good is allying with a kingdom who’s own women predict its failure!” Another of the Lords shook his head in disdain. “Never have I seen such an insult to your authority, my Lord. Control your offspring, immediately.”

“Is this true, Lincoln?” The Lord looked upon his son with black eyes. “Is there any truth to the tales my unruly daughter spills upon this table?”

Miriam looked to Lincoln in desperation. Never in all her days had she spoken a word of a lie. He knew that, as well as anyone else. “Linky,” She whispered, begging.

Lincoln looked at her, and then at his father, his Lord.

“Fabrications aplenty, my Father.” He said, and Miriam was cast out of the room. A heavy-handed guard came to each side and grabbed her beneath her pits, lifting her limp weight to carry her away. She didn’t kick or fight, but rather submitted entirely, knowing she had nothing that could save her now.

In the dungeon beneath the castle, she sat upon a hay bale stinking of cat piss, and waited for someone to come free her. Finally, after hours, her mother descended the stairs, a guard by each side.

“Mother!” Miriam exclaimed, “You heard what happened!” It was not a question, but a surety, as word travelled fast in the castle walls. The cell doors opened and her heart lifted. Mother was coming to release her. “I’m so sorry,” Miriam hurried to say, “It was no word of a lie, I only meant to warn them. Father wouldn’t hear it. He will go into this war blind, and our people will suffer greatly.”

Miriam’s mother smiled at her, “I know, my darling.” It was then, that Miriam realized she was being guided by the arm by the guards and led steadily into the cell. Miriam watched as the cell door closed on both herself and now, the very Queen of the castle.

Miriam’s eyes widened as her mother took a weary seat on the filthy hay bale. “My daughter,” She said, exhaustion coating her voice, lined by the silver thread of satisfaction. “We were not meant to communicate with men with words alone.” She risked a secret smile in her daughter’s direction, “They must bite into the truth.”

Miriam opened her mouth in wonder, a hundred questions pouring over her as far above, in the castle’s dining room, her father sat with his face red with fury. The cloche that had kept his meal hot as it passed from the kitchen to its place before him had been moved to the side. On the plate, his dinner waited, all twenty toes curled and ready to eat.