Her memories began with the tavern's greasy floor.
At three, the child already knew how to weave between tables and chairs carrying a wooden tray larger than her face, and how to kneel and scrub among spilled liquor and darker stains.
The men who came here wore weapons at their waists, and quarrels and ** were part of their entertainment.
The little girl was the cleaning shadow that followed behind them.
To her, the smell of death and blood was like the air she breathed.
"Please lift your feet. I need to wipe up the blood beside your boots."
-She said it as naturally as a greeting.
She had grown used to seeing others meet their end, but had not yet learned to grow numb to her own.
On one sweltering night, trouble found her anyway.
Two groups overturned their tables over a single exchanged glance.
In desperation, someone on the losing side reached for the nearest figure-Tani, who was holding empty liquor bottles.
But who, in a killing frenzy, would care about a little tavern drudge?
The sound of a blade slicing through the air brushed past her ear.
Warm liquid splashed her cheek.
Distorted shouts filled her surroundings, figures swinging every weapon they could grab in the dim light, cutting or being cut.
She curled into a ball in a corner.
Her memory of how she escaped afterward had blurred.
She remembered only stumbling toward the figure leaning against the counter, unable to force a complete syllable from her throat.
Her mother-the woman whose face was caked in thick powder-merely lowered her eyes and stuffed a soaking rag into her trembling little hands.
Then she pointed at the spreading dark stain nearby.
Tani froze where she stood, fragments of memory suddenly stabbing into her mind.
One damp night