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But I can be seen—and it seems that I’m the one to replace her.
“Yellows,” she explains, coming up closer to me so that I can hear her chilly whisper on my bare shoulder, “are officials. They come and go a lot, but rarely need to be waited on. Ignore them,” she adds as a tip.
I nod faintly, gnawing nervously at my bottom lip.
I just arrived and already, I feel as though I’ve been thrown into a boiling pot of chaos. All around me, the kitchen is in a flurry. Dinner in the Hall is drawing closer apparently, and the prince expects last-moment guests any second now, so more food has to be cooked (I know this because Hilda, the head of the house slaves, has been shouting at the cook non-stop since I came down here). Not only that, I’m not ready to serve the Hall just yet, or even tend to the prince’s chambers in his absence to build a fire or draw back his curtains and fluff his pillows. So as it happens, the house slaves are one down for service tonight.
With the weight of realisation starting to creep over me, starting to suffocate me, I find I don’t care much about the woes of the other slaves. I don’t care that they have a shortage of hands this busy night, or that Sira has small tooth-like scars on her mouth that twist her lips into an ugly grimace, or that we—the slaves—are meant to rely on the leftovers from dinner but there might not be enough to eat this night.
I care about nothing more than the miserable despair swelling up inside of my chest like a gaping abyss.
“Come on.” Sira’s low tone pulls me out of my spiralling thoughts, her voice weighed down by the troubles she carries with her, the same ones that slump her shoulders and bow her head in a forever gesture of defeat. “I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.”
It’s not a long walk. In fact, it’s just around the stone partition at the end of the kitchen. On the other side of the partition is an empty and cold room whose walls are beaded with droplets of dampness. It makes me think of the moments before the Chill comes, when a mist of water seems to cling to the air and invade the lungs.
I hardly manage a full breath before I’m thrown forward with the force of a violent cough. Great. I’ll get a whole lot of no sleep at all down here.
As I right myself, I lean against the stone wall and eye the dark, damp room. There are no beds, no cots, no blankets, no fireplace—nothing but a dark, damp space.
“This is where we sleep?” I wonder aloud, doubt chipping into my tone.
“Not all of us,” Sira says and folds her arms over her full bust that looks about ready to spill out of her corseted bodice. “Just the newcomers and the ...disgracedones,” she adds carefully. “You’re a house slave,” she adds, turning her narrow face on me and landing her brown eyes on the fullness of my cracked lips. “They’ll fix you up with a room in no time. We share, but it’s nice.” She pauses to shrug then hugs herself tighter. “There are beds and blankets and pillows. Sometimes even a washtub.”
“Were you in one of those rooms?” I ask, still leaning against the wall.
“I still am,” she says without looking at me. “But my roommate is ...gone.”
A chill snares up my spine. It rattles a shudder over my shoulders, a fleeting but strong one.
I don’t want to pry into that any further.
Just keep my head down and make it through the months, then get home.
“Well,” Sira starts and draws away from me. “Stay awake long enough to get a plate of food,” she tells me, “and get a good rest. You’ll start serving tomorrow.”
I pale as I watch her go.
But I do as she says.
The plate of dinner scraps comes some hours later. And as I pick at boiled potatoes (half-eaten), I learn that the four waves of time come with a slight difference in this world. In mine, it’s the Chill, the First Wind, the Warmth, and the Quiet. Here, it’s the Warmth (when we wake), then the Breeze, the First Wind, and the Quiet (when all in the land goes to sleep and falls to rest).
The difference is so slight that I know I can manage it. And at least here, there is no Chill ... Well, no Chill outside of this damp kitchen backroom I wander into after dinner.
I find myself a spot in the corner furthest from the barred window, hoping the layers of my dress will keep me safe from the draught.
I lie there for a while, awake even when the last of the slaves creep into the room.
As others sleep around me, tossing and turning on occasion, I fight the coughs that brew in my chest, and wallow in the tears that stream down my face.
I can’t accept this life...
And yet, I must.
