Page 91 of Wings of Destruction

Blood pulses in my ears.

I bite down on my tongue and wait for her to erupt. The explosion comes right on time.

“You’re not doing your work,” Milkin says, lifting her arms up at her sides. “The others are having to pull double time because you flutter around like you’re too good for any of this. Are you, Miss Whyte? Too good for manual labor?”

She pauses only for as long as it takes to draw another breath, and my mind skitters to a full halt.

“I thought your silence was a good thing, until I realized there’s a reason for it. You’re not staying out of trouble, you aren’t keeping your head down and performing your duties with grace. You’re shirking them! Sleeping away the time. Today is not the first time you’ve failed to complete an assignment. Am I correct?”

Milkin draws herself up to her full height. I never considered her menacing before but there is something horrible about her face. Her embedded frown lines are deeper, her eyes tracing mine and her hands clasped hard enough to turn her knuckles white.

There’s no good answer.

“No one is above their station, not even you. The sooner you learn your place, the easier it will be for you. Exceptions benefit nobody.” Her hands drop to her waist into two well-worn grooves where she so often puts them. “So why should they be made for you?”

I hang my head, anger coating the inside of my throat. I try to open my mouth to say something to her, but the muscles lock tight and keep my jaw in place.

Milkin rakes her eyes over me again, finding every part of me wanting. Sweat slicks the back of my dress to my skin.

“When the others came to me, I told them they were being foolish. You needed time to adjust. But the time has passed, and I am the only fool here for giving you the benefit of the doubt.” Satisfaction flashes across her face.

“I never said I was too good for the work,” I finally whisper.

Milkin takes a step closer. “No? The others have heard you, speaking about your past. The servants you used to have at your beck and call.”

Panic, my old friend, pries itself free from my chest and claws toward my throat.

“That’s not true.”

Isn’t it, though? Yet, I never talked about home. I’d tried to shove my past behind thick walls, but there were times it inevitably surfaced.

“Daisy came to me when you first arrived, after I asked her to take you under her wing, and she spoke about your insolence. I told her to give you a chance. Now I’m wondering if we’ve made a mistake by not beating this defiance out of you sooner.”

The touch of a whip would be better than the chewing out. Air rushes out of me and queasiness takes hold. I wait for the pain when Milkin reaches out a hand. I brace, my cheek already throbbing.

Her power lies in control. She doesn’t have to touch me to make her point.

She’s already proven she can.

Her hand drops back to her side and she stands in front of me with an unmasked sneer, waiting for me to meet her gaze again.

At least if she beats me, I’ll have the scars to show I survived. In this situation, the only toll taken is inside of me where no one else is around to witness the bloody and bruised areas.

“We’ve had to pick up extra chores to cover for her.” The voice comes from the left, and I glance up sharply to see Druella, the blonde I’d almost beaten up, join Milkin in the tirade. “She often leaves her duties only half finished, if she bothers to complete them. I’ve seen her, Mrs. Milkin.”

She’d recovered well enough from the attack. Only a faint trace of blush and plum mark the contusions around her eyes. The split in her lip has healed and the nose I’d broken has been reset in place.

The discolorations on her cheeks are all but gone.

“Yes, exactly. You do realize, Miss Whyte,” Milkin begins, condescension dripping from each word, “that if someone complains about one of us, we all get in trouble? Every single person here will suffer because you’ve decided you are too good to see your jobs to completion?”

“I’m not too good for them,” I insist. It costs me. “I’m doing my best. I’m trying as hard as I can.”

Druella sniffs, scoffs, lets out a hen’s cackle of laughter. “Your best?”

To her, I’m the most hilarious person in the room.

“You can’t be serious. She’s still wearing the necklace, too, Mrs. Milkin. The one she accused me of stealing? Why would she wear it if she didn’t think herself better than the rest of us?”