For a moment, Frae was so stunned she could only gape at the shards. The bowl she had worked so hard to shape and stain, the bowl she had waited so patiently to set in the kiln, had just broken. And so easily, as if those hours had meant nothing. But then something else was thrown at her. She flinched as it sailed past her, narrowly missing her face.
Someone was throwing mud balls at her. The one that had struck her chest was still stuck to her plaid, smelling like stinky marsh water.
She glanced up. She wasn’t sure who had thrown it at her, or why. Maybe it was an accident?
“My mum says her father’s a Breccan,” one of the older boys said to the others up ahead on the road. He glanced back to sneer at her, then chuckled at the sight of the mud on her plaid.
“Breccan spawn,” another lad hissed.
“She shouldn’t be wearing that plaid.”
“Disgusting.”
A third mud clot was hurling toward her, and Frae was so upset she froze, unable to move. She waited for it to hit her, to knock her down and break her into pieces, just like the bowl, but it never came. She watched, astounded, as one of the older girls intercepted it, raising her book to stop the mud ball in midair.
It squelched against the book cover. The girl slung it off to the side of the road, as if she did this every day, and then wiped the book on her tunic to clear off the residue. She turned and fixed a cold stare on the boys, who had stopped in their tracks and were watching her, their mouths ajar.
The girl never said a word. She didn’t have to, because the boys turned and rushed onward.
“I’m sorry about that, Frae,” said the girl, and Frae wasn’t sure what surprised her more—the fact that this older student knew her name or that she had taken a mud clot for her. “Are you all right?” The girl knelt and began to gather up the pottery pieces.
“I . . .” Frae’s voice quivered. She drank the words, afraid she would cry.
I wish Jack were here, she thought, wiping away a tear that slipped free. If he was, this wouldn’t have happened!
“This is a very pretty bowl,” the girl said, admiring the etchings Frae had decorated it with. “Yours came out much better than mine.” She glanced up and smiled. She had two dimples and freckles across her nose, and her brown hair was in one long, thick braid.
Frae blinked, still shocked this girl was speaking her.
“My name is Ella, by the way. Here, let’s walk together.”
Before Frae could scrounge up a reply, Ella had removed the mud clot that still clung to her plaid and eased her forward.
“You don’t have to walk with me,” Frae finally whispered.
“I’d like to, though,” Ella replied. “If you don’t mind my company.”
Frae shook her head, but she was too nervous to look at Ella, or to think of something to say.
They walked together, watching as the children ahead of them began to turn from the road one by one as they reached their crofts. Frae knew Ella must have already passed her home, because soon it was just the two of them left and Mirin’s hill was coming into view.
“My mum’s just there, waiting on me,” Frae said, pointing.
“Oh, tell her I said hello,” Ella said, carefully handing the pottery shards to Frae. “Perhaps we could walk with each other again tomorrow?”
Frae was embarrassed that she had let Ella carry her broken bowl the entire time. You should have asked for it, so you didn’t bother her! But she had been too meek to raise her voice. Now her mind still reeled, and so she merely nodded.
“Good. I’ll see you then, Frae.” Ella smiled and began to backtrack along the road, her long braid swaying as she walked.
Frae turned to take the path that would lead her home.
She paused, staring down at the pieces again. She didn’t want her mother to see the broken bowl, so she hid the shards in the tall grass. Then Frae panicked, because she also didn’t want Mirin to know those boys had thrown mud at her—she didn’t want Mirin to know what those boys had said—but her plaid was stained. She quickly removed the green-and-red-checkered wool, turned it inside out, and draped it back over her head. There. Mirin would never know.
Frae sighed and continued along the path, her heart lifting when she saw Mirin waiting for her at the garden gate.
“Frae? What is this?”
Frae was reading by the fire later that evening, but she stiffened at the sound of Mirin’s voice. Without even looking up from the page, she knew what her mother was asking about.
Slowly, Frae lifted her eyes.