The Old Man

Chapter 2: The Price of Progress (Part 1)

The road stretched before her like a pale scar across the flesh of the land.

Lyra had been walking for perhaps an hour when the sun finally crested the distant treeline, painting the sky in shades of gold and amber that would have been beautiful if she'd had the capacity to appreciate them. Her feet were already sore---the dirt road was not kind to bare soles---and the thin wool dress rode up with every step, the hem threatening to expose the full curve of her thighs with each stride. She kept tugging it down, her fingers clenching the rough fabric, but the motion was as futile as it was automatic.

The dress was a cruel mercy. It covered her, technically, but it also highlighted everything it failed to hide. The wool was so old and worn that it had become almost translucent in the direct sunlight, outlining the shadow of her legs and the dark triangle between them in ghostly silhouette. The neckline was loose and kept slipping, threatening to bare a shoulder or---if she wasn't careful---more. And without anything underneath, without even the simplest binding for her breasts, every step sent a small, mortifying jiggle through her chest that she could feel even if no one else could see.

She was acutely aware of her own body in a way she had never been before. Every breeze, every shaft of sunlight, every rough texture against her skin reminded her of her vulnerability.

Just get to the next town, she told herself. Buy proper clothes. Figure out the rest later.

The coins weighed in her palm---two small pieces of copper, warm from her grip. She had no idea what they were worth, but she suspected it wasn't much. Enough for socks or old boots, Hilda had said. That wasn't good enough. She needed a full set of clothes, and for that she would need more money.

Which meant more work.

The thought made her stomach clench. Her muscles still ached from yesterday's labor, and the prospect of hauling more grain sacks---or whatever equivalent this world might throw at her---was almost enough to make her weep. But there was no alternative. She couldn't walk into a city naked. She couldn't even walk into a town properly covered, not with this dress, not with the way it clung and shifted and revealed.

A sound broke her reverie.

Behind her, the creak of wheels and the clop of hooves. Someone was coming.

Lyra's first instinct was to hide---to dart off the road into the sparse trees that lined it and wait for whoever it was to pass. The dress was bad enough; being seen in it was worse. But her feet hurt, and the sun was climbing, and the road was long, and perhaps---perhaps---she could ask for directions, at least. Or maybe there was a chance, however small, that whoever was driving the cart would take pity on her.

She stepped to the side of the road and turned, one hand clutching the neckline of her dress closed, the other tugging at the hem.

The cart that rounded the bend was a simple wooden wagon, its wheels tall and iron-rimmed, its bed loaded with barrels and sacks. Two horses pulled it---shaggy, heavy-footed creatures that plodded along with the resigned patience of animals who had done this a thousand times before. And on the driver's seat sat a man.

He was older, maybe fifty, with a grizzled grey beard and a broad-brimmed hat that shaded his eyes. His clothes were simple but practical---a linen tunic, leather breeches, sturdy boots. He held the reins with casual ease, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.

As the cart drew closer, his eyes found her.

The look he gave her was not kind.

It was the look a man gives a piece of livestock he's considering buying---appraising, calculating, stripping away everything but the bare physical reality. His gaze traveled from her bare feet up her legs, pausing at the hem of her dress, then continuing upward over her hips, her waist, the swell of her breasts beneath the thin wool. By the time his eyes reached her face, she felt as exposed as she had in the cornfield.

"Lost, are you?" he asked, reining the horses to a stop. His voice was rough, like stones grinding together.

"I---yes," Lyra said, forcing the word past the lump in her throat. "I'm trying to reach the nearest town. Can you tell me how far it is?"

The man scratched his beard, still staring at her. "Brenthollow's about five miles further on. You'll reach it by midday, if you keep walking." His eyes dropped to her chest again, then back up. "Assuming you don't get distracted."

The implication made her skin crawl. She crossed her arms over her breasts, trying to shield them from his gaze. "Thank you. I should---I should keep walking, then."

"Hold on." The man raised a hand. "Five miles is a long way on bare feet. Especially in that... garment." He smiled, and there was something in the smile that she didn't like. "I could give you a ride. Save you the walk."

Lyra hesitated. Every instinct told her to refuse, to keep walking, to put as much distance between herself and this man as possible. But her feet were already blistering, and the sun was only getting hotter, and five miles was a long, long way.

"What would it cost?" she asked, because she had already learned that nothing in this world was free.

The man's smile widened. "For a pretty thing like you? Nothing at all. Just climb up here and keep an old man company. It gets lonely on the road."