Page 48 of The Ashpaw: Part One

Chapter 13

Fern

Kyntha’s speech and Jules’s quick “correction” by Darion had officially labeled Fern not as just the Ashpaw, but a provocateur. Someone who toyed with men’s affections for her own benefit.

A tail-tease, they called her. A term that would almost sound sweet if it were not meant to degrade her further.

Fern had never purposefully batted her eyelashes or swished her hips to garner any kind of favor. She’d been known to engage in a little light banter when she’d been allowed to speak, but that had always been in response to someone.

She supposed it was better this way, for at least now there was absolutely no one to draw attention to her.

It was safer.

Sweeping up one night to the dying light of the fireplace, Fern found an end to a carrot someone had bitten off and discarded.

She considered tossing it for a moment, and then remembered her new friend, Anwen.

Anwen had shown up a few nights ago. Fern had just laid her dress, damp from spot-washing, over herself like a blanket when she spotted her coming in.

She was shy at first, much like Fern, but after a while they began to speak of their mutual interests, such as the state of the crumbs in the kitchen—horrible, hardly worth scrounging for, although occasionally one would find a bit of crust from a pie that wasn’t too burnt or dirty.

Or the end to a carrot.

She pocketed the little stub, and once she was finished, headed back downstairs alone.

Finished with her washing, she settled in her corner, took out the carrot top, and placed it a few feet away from her, waiting for Anwen to arrive.

It didn’t take long these days.

“Good evening, madam,” Fern said, watching her scurry along the uneven stone towards her. “I saw there was a heavy downpour this afternoon. You didn’t get caught in it, did you? Or does most of your work keep you in the castle as well?”

What she wouldn’t give to breathe fresh air again. To feel the sun on her face. The breeze in her hair.

And anything against her skin that was not rough linen and dried sweat.

Anwen sniffed cautiously at the carrot, then took it in her paws, whiskers twitching as she began to chew.

Slowly, she extended her fingers, but Anwen stuffed the gift in her mouth and ran off before she got too close.

“It’s okay,” she whispered after her in the dark, wiping a tear off her cheek. “We’ll try again next time.”

* * *

Sometime during the week, she’d woken with a blanket over her. It was old, threadbare and with holes so pronounced it wouldn’t even be good enough for the horses, but it was a blanket.

Fern didn’t want to guess who had left it for her, because she didn’t want the person to get in trouble, even if the name was kept only to her thoughts.

She also feared leaving it in the servants’ quarters unattended. The woman who’d led the attack against her, Mauricia, had given her a wide berth for a while after the grievance. Fern hoped that being so close to becoming the next Ashpaw herself had been enough to set her straight.

But then Kyntha had decided to call upon Mauricia as an attendant, and her newfound status emboldened her to lash out further.

Fern was regularly smashed into walls, tripped down stairs, and had all manner of drink and food spilled on her from behind, unable to dodge or guard herself.

So she wrapped the blanket under her skirt to keep it safe.

Fern wanted to assume this assignment was all a coincidence, that it couldn’t possibly be some sort of reward for what she’d done. But she’d long since learned she wasn’t allowed to want anything.

It was late into the night, when everyone should have been asleep. Fern had nearly made it to her corner unnoticed before she spotted a few women still awake, giggling among themselves.