Page 51 of Wings of Destruction

It takes hours for a maid to clean one of these classrooms. The size is just too large for it to be an easy job, something the builders of the school no doubt pushed aside in their consideration. The stone walls catch dust and particles of debris, not to mention cobwebs like delicate filigree lace.

The chandeliers overhead are too high to reach without some kind of scaffolding, and even the extendable feather dusters only brush the bottom of the candelabras.

There are no easy jobs for the housekeepers of DragonSpear.

There are certainly no places to hide if you find yourself in need of escape.

I scrub my hand over my forearm but the smell of dragon dung still clings to every pore. There are no more hot showers, not for maids. There is a long winding line leading up to a row of leaky showerheads. They drip out a lukewarm stream and by the time the end of the line finally makes their way to the front, even that small amount of warmth is gone.

I can’t get the stench of the aerie off of me.

Blood pulses in my ears. I tighten my grip on the broom handle and flinch when the skin cracks.

My wounds are healing but slowly. Without a day off, there’s no chance for my body to catch up on the rest it desperately needs in order to heal.

At least I’m not in the hospital wing.

That’s where I put the girl who tried to steal my necklace. I brush my fingertips against the curve of the pendant beneath my uniform. Yup, lesson learned. I’m keeping it with me these days.

Mrs. Milkin handed out the day’s duties from her ever-changing roster. There is an army of cleaners and most of them work in pairs. I glanced briefly at the black-haired girl in the cot beside mine, but she paired off with someone else. And Milkin gave me this classroom to do on my own before dinner.

My stomach twists and shrinks, growling in anticipation of the food we’d been denied for our failure with the aerie.

I scowl at the room. “This better go quick. I want my helping of gruel.”

The room has no answer for me.

There are enough seats for roughly a hundred students and no matter the one they choose, they are all granted a good view of their teacher.

I sweep the broom against the first row of floorboards and do nothing but smear the dirt into wavering lines. Then, because I can’t help myself, I glance at the books.

Every classroom I’ve seen has the same library wall. The lower rows are sparser, divided into square cubbies for the students to store their required reading for class.

It has something to do with a new law, one implemented when Roman Ryson took over.

He decreed that battle formations were dangerous topics and the study would be controlled by those loyal to the king. The books and their knowledge aren’t out in the open for just anyone. Only those with access to the classes are able to touch their spines.

This is no public library. This is a purposefully controlled environment.

And I’m just the girl sweeping the floors.

I stand straight and my spine clicks, telling me exactly how it feels about being snapped into place.

A quick glance at my reflection in the shadowed window stops me in my tracks. My skin has gone paler than milk, the hollows beneath my cheekbones carved and my eyes glassy, empty.

My reflection scrunches its nose but even the silly face fails to erase the tragedy written more surely than any official court document on my features.

“A magic potion won’t help you,” I tell my reflection with a groan. “Neither will sleep. You’d have to sleep for an entire year.”

Any vanity I might have had once upon a time, when I’d had servants of my own to help with my unruly hair or lace me into brightly colored dresses, is gone now. I smile widely until every tooth shows.

The smile is a mockery and hits something inside of me with an ominous clang. I hastily look away.

The person I used to be is gone. The one now had better come to terms with my place here, quickly.

I rub the back of my neck and the knots. A half hour goes by, an hour, marked by the persistent ticking clock above the classroom doors, and I’m three quarters of the way done with the floor. Although done is a relative term.

I’m terrible at this. My hands won’t stay steady, and I keep losing focus halfway through tasks. No wonder Daisy and the others have to take on extra work. I should really do the floor again but there are so many other things to accomplish…