The morning passed me by like a summer haze. Except that it was cold, as if spring had shivered and retreated back a few skittering steps, extending winter’s domain a handful of days. Frost gripped the grass in an icy hold as my mother pressed a kiss to my cheek and I wondered if I failed if her eyes would mist up. No. More likely she would remind me that she loved me, her dear sweet clever Anya, and save her tears for my future for when she thought she was alone.

To be clear – my mother and I were not strictly poor. I had a mattress and a thick blanket and clean, hemmed clothes and a roof over my dry head. We worked hard, Sofia rising early to sweep the floor at the bakery and then, when the doors had opened, to count change with her tired fingers. My mother had a friendly manner, a soft smile and a voice ringing out a welcome for each and every patron that walked through the door.

But what endeared her to the owner was her no-nonsense approach for any loitering teens or argumentative patrons. No matter how good she was, though, there was nowhere to rise to beyond shop-woman. In the late afternoons she returned home, flour caked into the grooves of her face and her sleeves rolled up ready for her second job of running a household of two. Our older house was closer to the outer edges of the city than the inner and was in need of constant repairs that we did not have the coin to pay another to do.

So my mother did them. She called them our Projects, with a capital P, like a grand title could inspire me to view clambering onto the roof to nail on a tile an adventure. Or rehanging a shelf after all the spice pots slid off the end and shattered into a thousand tiny fragments that glinted like stars on the neatly dusted floor.

I was a tidy child who grew into a smart, conscientious teen – or so I liked to think of myself. But, like anyone blossoming into adulthood I stole time just for me. Time for me and Lori and Andrew to drink cheap pints at questionable taverns, to plot adventures and stare at the sky and talk about our dreams. I did not want to endlessly rehang shelves.

Like everyone in Wardwatch and, as far as I knew in my limited experience of our kingdom, everyone in Westal, I had my studies. I already had my certificates in reading, writing and basic arithmetic, which were the bare minimum for anyone to even sit an apprenticeship interview. Urged on by Lori and Andrew, who were both more suited to sitting still and listening patiently than I was, I had scored a handful more certificates in further and applied studies – further mathematics, Westalian history, and cultural studies on the theoretical side, gardening, cooking and basic repairing skills on the practical.

But that was where my schooling had ended. I lacked the natural talent at academia to bother wasting the coin at attempting the entrance exams of the four universities: Rhetoric, Investigation, Warfare, and History. It was not prohibitively expensive, but I was not sure I would succeed in the academic life even if I had got my foot through the carved wooden doors. I was not a pretty speaker of rhetoric and fancy word puzzles, neither was a suited to the science of investigation. Thinking up ways to send as many men to their deaths interested me not one whit and neither did staring at scribbled pages thinking of the past.

So I turned my practical feet to the hopes of an apprenticeship and on that cold morning the world stood still around me, quivering in anticipation. I had wanted to be a jeweller, crafting delicate pieces for the rich and glamorous to wear. I envisioned them wearing my designs, declaring matter of fact to their equally gorgeous friends that, oh yes, this is an Anya, I finally got mine off of the two-year waitlist.

But that seemed unlikely, given that my fingers were not delicate enough. I snorted into my scarf, in good humour because at least the elegance of my hands, of all things, was out of my control and not an indication of a character failing. No matter, there were other chances.

I joined the queue that spilled out down the steps of the apprenticeship office, recognising a couple of faces in the queue as old schoolmates and vague acquaintances. A girl with a long tumble of auburn hair slipped out of the door, pausing for a moment for the next person to go in before closing it behind her against the chill air. One person out, one person. I had six people in front of me and, I supposed, a couple already inside. At a few minutes per person I had perhaps half an hour to stand with my thoughts.

I kept my thoughts from thinking about myself – what good would it do, after all? My result was already stained in ink across a page in some drawer, ready to be plucked out by an assistant. It would be handed to me and beside each profession would be scrawled either an acceptance or a rejection. I could either accept one on the spot or return the slip today up to the close of business day.

The pay was the same for each and would be distributed by this very office. If I were fortunate, I would be here once a week for my pay packet. Lady willing, the grooves of the stone steps beneath my boots would grow transform by the magic of familiarity from cold and uninviting to a comfortable habit. So money wasn’t really a factor in my choice, if I got one. Time was variable; some of the more complex professions could take up to ten years before an apprentice could shed their title for a grander one, whilst some could take as little as two years.

I didn’t want to rush out of the stability that a mentor offered, but neither did I want to waste all of my twenties at someone’s beck and call! As my mother is oft to say, one thing at a time.

When it was my turn to walk through the door, passing from the cold of the outside into the office, the boy exiting gave me a broad grin and a gesture of encouragement. Clearly he had received welcome news.

“Anya Vorian,” I said clearly to the middle aged man at the desk, proud that my voice came out firm and unbroken.

He hummed in acknowledgement and pulled out a drawer near the bottom of the cabinet. I reflected on how something so important to me was so pedestrian to someone else. For this man, I could be the eight or twenty first or eightieth person he had done this for today. This could be his first year or sixteenth of handing eighteen year olds their results. There would be no reaction that he had not seen already, no matter if I laughed or cried, tried to thank him or took out a money purse or started shrieking like a banshee. I wasn’t entirely sure if that idea comforted me or not.

“Vorian, here you go.” The wax-sealed envelope transferred between us with a gentle smile. “You can open it now and drop it into the box there if you select a choice, or you can return any time before fourth bell this afternoon. Whatever you find easiest.”

“Thank you, but I think I’ll get it over with.”

One deep breath and I tore the seal open and drew the thick letter out. My name was printed clearly in block capitals at the top with my mother’s name just below, in case there was any confusion. There was, of course, no father’s name for me. My mother literally did not know who he was. I had discovered this when she had told me one too many comforting tales when I was small about a brave, hardworking man who wanted to stay but needed to leave for some Very Important Reason. Comforting stories to a small girl that unfortunately had too many conflicting details. Maybe my mother should have encouraged me to study logic and rhetoric after that clever solve.

I read the list carefully, one row at a time, my heart sinking further with each rejection. They were kind enough not to include a reason, for I did not think I could have taken any personal comments at that moment. Then I reached the last one and something like a light flared in my chest. Which was, upon reflection, an entirely unexpected reaction to learning that my life, or at least the next few years, would be devoted to constant, unyielding and completely unglamorous exercise.

It was something like a story, I thought. A tale about a girl who in a moment of fear makes a choice to write down something she has never even thought about, has no interest in, and then because of that ends up on a completely unexpected path. Like a girl who pours pints in a tavern who one day opens her mouth and realises she can sing like a songbird. But instead of gracing the parties of nobles, I would be carrying their messages, as fast and as far as my short and completely undefined legs could carry me.

Runner: affirmative.

I looked up at the clerk and shook my head.

“I honestly have no idea how I am going to explain this to my mother. She’s going to be so proud and so mad all at once. It is going to be so uncomfortable.”