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Hilda pats me on the back as I wander past her, the plate firm in my grip, to join Sira on the windowsill.
We eat in silence, watching the other slaves bustle about—some doing chores, others stealing their moments to socialise with each other before the Quiet comes. Gary and Archer are in the parlour room now, waiting on the princes. I haven’t been granted that role yet, and I’m glad for it. The less I have to do to get by, the better.
I scarf down the full meal—one of the fullest I’ve ever had, I think—and when I’ve all but licked the plate clean, my belly has swollen to the brink of pain.
Handing off the plate to Sira, who’s been roped into helping wash the dishes by the bossy cook, I lean back against the dust-grimed window and rub my belly.
Terry finds me, parking herself next to me on the windowsill.
She mirrors me, reclining against the window. She doesn’t say anything, nothing about the looks that the princes cast my way, or the sweets we stole (I’m absolutely certain the prince knows I had one in my mouth), she is just quiet with exhaustion.
Finally, the edge of the Quiet comes and Hilda decides I’m not needed. The princes are still in the parlour room, drinking. But Archer and Gary are expected to stay up to cater to them, and Hilda dismisses me for an early rest since I have to be up first to serve the prince’s chambers at the break of the Warmth.
I head up to the room alone. Sira is still slaving away in the kitchen as I take my wash in the wooden tub, then dress in a white slip.
I’m climbing into bed when Sira finally comes through the door.
I roll onto my side to follow her with my gaze.
She shoots a longing look at the tub, filled with murky water. I couldn’t be bothered emptying it just yet. My sickness has risen up inside of me since leaving the kitchen, and I feel on the verge of a hacking fit. The last thing I want to do is use a pail to carry loads of water to the fountain at the end of the corridor again and again until the tub is empty.
“Go on,” I tell her, waving my hand in the direction of the tub. “I’m finished with it.”
Her voice is a loosened sigh, “Thanks.”
She strips down to nothing, then steps into the lukewarm water.
My lashes are heavy as I watch her bathe.
Before I slip off to sleep, I ask her, “What do you know of Prince Elden?”
Her face sours. She doesn’t look at me as she answers, “All the princes and princesses are cruel. But none more than him.”
“And the prince we serve?” I probe. “I haven’t seen him do anything so terrible since I got here.”
Her smile is bitter and dark—worthy of a fae. “I had a friend in this castle once. We served together in the light lands before the dark fae came ... Anyway, we were both taken here. She lasted four weeks before the torture around here finally got to her. She started to tremble—never a good thing for a house slave. Once ...just once, she lost her nerve and jumped in fright when she walked around a corner and bumped into the prince. Turns out, that was a deadly mistake.”
My voice is thick with sleep. “What happened?”
“He drowned her in the fountain in the west atrium.”
“Oh.” My lashes lower all the way. “I’m sorry.”
That’s all I say—and hear—before I slip away.
I dream that the princes both drown me in the washtub.
*
The service bell screams above my bed, jolting me out of sleep.
Legs tangled in the scratchy sheets, I sit upright, fingers curled into the bedding, and draw in a sharp breath.
It takes me a moment to let dreams of the princes drowning me to fade away. Then, reality sinks into my bones and the tension drifts out of my fisted muscles.
My shoulders relax, tension unwinding like a falling ribbon.
The blaring alarm of the bell fades into an echo in my ears once I’ve gathered my wits.
