Written by Tori Brown
Juniper curled herself around the gnarled roots of the fig tree in the field outside her village, hoping to feel its embrace. Today was her 13th name-day, her Meliorare, a day of great importance for the demonfolk of her church. But Juniper hardly felt excited. She heaved herself out of her resting place and dragged her hooves along the ground as she trudged back to her home.
On the edge of town, Juniper could smell freshly baked bread wafting over from the bakery. She pressed her chubby little face against the glass storefront and dreamed of biting into the buttery pastries that were trapped behind.
‘Get away from that, you’ll dirty them with your vileness.’
Juniper jumped away from the glass as the baker’s wife leered at her, a tray of loaves balanced on her hip. The woman’s face distorted in horror as her gaze flitted over Juniper’s two horns, purple skin, and forked tail, and stuck on Juniper’s hooves. Suddenly, a hand clamped down onto Juniper’s shoulder.
Her father Solomon spoke softly. ‘My apologies, Ms Burbridge. She’s such a disobedient child, the Gods truly have cursed us.’
‘Keep an eye on her, the devil’s eyes shine through her,’ snarled Ms Burbridge. The door slammed shut behind her, the bakery bell ringing loudly. Juniper’s flaming eyes reflected back at her.
‘Must you always cause trouble,’ Solomon mumbled. ‘At least after today, things may change for you.’
They walked the rest of the way home in silence, while the grocer stacked his stands with fresh fruit, the blacksmith fanned the flames of his forge, and the sun rose over the town. Some of the townsfolk waved to Solomon, but the stares of others weighed heavy on Juniper. Their house was located on The Rift. On one side there were humans, dwarves, and the occasional elf passing through from Sapphire Lake. On the other side, were people like Juniper—demonfolk, orcs, goblins—the unholy. Solomon was The Rift’s representative on the High Council.
Once they arrived home, Juniper found herself face-to-face with her stepmother, Lonicera.
‘Oh Juniper, there you are. Where was she this time?’ she asked.
‘The bakery,’ Solomon replied before stalking off to his study.
Juniper stared at the ground as Lonicera buzzed around her like a bee inspecting a flower, before walking her down the hallway to the bathroom.
Lonicera stripped her of her clothes, muttering all the while about her unruly stepdaughter as she readied the bath. Juniper had grown used to blocking it all out. It’s not that Lonicera was a bad mother, quite the opposite. Lonicera made sure Juniper was well-looked after, warm, and well-fed, and when Juniper’s half-siblings picked on her, she was the first to reprimand them. But Lonicera didn’t love Juniper. Lonicera had never said this aloud, but growing up, Juniper had felt it. She could feel it in Lonicera’s stiff hugs, the way her eyes never truly met hers, or how she would always talk around Juniper but never with her.
As she climbed into the bath, the scalding hot water felt lukewarm to Juniper. What was worse was the hard scrub brush her stepmother used soon after. She left the bath feeling raw as she pulled her shift back on, before heading to her room. Laid upon her bed was a white Meliorare gown which greatly resembled an old lace doily. Her stepmother helped lace the bust and sat her by the vanity to brush her hair.
‘This dress is too scratchy,’ Juniper sighed, tugging at the gown’s stiff collar..
‘I expect you to be downstairs and ready with a brand-new attitude in the next five minutes,’ said her stepmother, ignoring Juniper’s complaints. ‘We have a name to uphold Juniper Vespera.’ Juniper rolled her eyes at this; Lonicera pursed her lips and left.
Juniper’s room was nothing special. Plain and plastered with hand-me-downs. The only part of the room that was truly Juniper’s was an ornate silver box under a loose floorboard. Kneeling to the ground, she slipped her fingers between the crack and popped it up to retrieve her treasure. Inside the box was her special rock collection, some gold coins, and a ring she’d had since she was born. Carved into the ring was an intricate symbol Juniper didn’t quite understand. She would wear it as a young child, but when Lonicera first saw it, she forbade Juniper from ever wearing it again. It was because of this, she knew that it was her mother’s. Solomon told Juniper once that she had died in childbirth, but Juniper swore that she could remember a demonfolk woman who read her stories and braided her hair with the bushel-like flower she was named for.
The ring seemed fragile in the palm of her hand, and she suddenly feared losing it. She slipped on the ring, tucked the box away, and headed downstairs. She needed a piece of her mother with her today.
*****
Juniper sat on a hard church pew, rubbing the hem of her gown between her fingers. The wood beneath her was chipped and old. She could hear Solomon’s deep voice hum through the stone building as he delivered his opening sermon, but she was unable to make out the words. She felt as though she was under water, the world simply happening around her. Solomon stepped down from the pulpit and sat beside her as the choir started their song. Juniper tensed and felt herself sit up straighter; today was meant to honour her. If Solomon were to see her shirking this duty, it would no longer be her day. Her father grabbed her hand, and she found herself tenser still.
‘Are you nervous, Juniper?’ Solomon asked.
‘No.’
‘It would be alright if you were.’
Juniper chanced a glimpse at their entwined hands. ‘Maybe.’
Solomon went silent and Juniper feared she had said the wrong thing. Instead, Solomon chuckled sombrely. He looked at her and cupped her chin like a sculptor holding clay, his eyes twinkling amidst a face drawn with lines.
‘So like your mother sometimes.’
He turned his face back towards the choir and squeezed her hand as they sang the last verse, then he stood again, returning to his pulpit. Solomon had never talked to Juniper before about her mother. She raised the question only once in her childhood. Solomon had gone silent and swept out of the house in a bitter rage. His words and sudden affection confused Juniper. She looked down at the hand Solomon had just held; her mother’s ring stared back. She smiled until she caught Lonicera looking at her in the corner of her eye. She attempted to sit even taller, feeling rather silly, as though she was about to tip out of her seat.
‘Today we celebrate my eldest child, Juniper.’
He motioned for Juniper to rise, and she stood to the quiet cheer of the congregation. She stared intensely at the wooden floorboards as she approached the steps at the front of the church, desperate not to trip. As she stood before Solomon, he recited the rites of Meliorare and blessed Juniper, in his right hand a tub of red balm. He ran the tip of his left index finger into the mixture and smeared a sign on Juniper’s forehead. Two arcs just below her horns and in-between two strokes, with curved ends like an arrow. Juniper had only ever seen two Meliorare’s and could not recall these two strokes in either. Her worries were drowned out as the church rattled with the blessings of all the demonfolk of their community. This was where Juniper belonged, in the chorus of voices before her. The crowd quieted.
She rubbed the underside of the ring with her thumb, a part of her aching. She had never felt so alone.
Author Bio:
Tori Brown (she/her) is a queer Meanjin-based creative currently studying a Bachelor of Fine Arts (Creative Writing) at QUT. She has been published in Glass Magazine, Strange Daze II, Uplift Poetry, and ScratchThat. She wrote “Never Blue” the headlining play for Vena Cava’s 2024 Freshblood Festival. In 2024 she was the recipient of the Kellie Van Meurs Memorial Scholarship for her contributions to creative writing at QUT. In 2025 she was shortlisted for QUT’s Allen & Unwin Prize. She has been active in QUT Literary Salon as both President and Social Media Manager. In 2026 she was an Editorial Board member with ScratchThat magazine. None of her works would be possible without the immense emotional support of her cat and the power of caffeine. Contact her via email at niwatori024@gmail.com or follow her on Instagram @tori.writes.sometimes