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I recall the sight of Zabriel dressed in his plate armor, standing amid flames. Then without his armor in the moonlight. The tips of my ears grow hot.
Well, so what? No beatings—yet—and some of them are good-looking. Is that all it takes to win people’s loyalty?
The woman who has her husband back hasn’t stopped smiling the whole time she’s been sewing. If one of these dragonriders brought me my family, I might find my heart softening toward them as well.
“Who is the new king? I haven’t had time to find that out,” I ask, glancing around as if he might appear that very moment.
“A big soldier who rides a dragon, that’s what I’ve heard,” says one of the women.
“They seem to worship their dragons,” adds another.
One of the women shakes out a finished banner and examines it. “That they do, but as long as they don’t feed me to one of them, I’ll be happy with a new king, and them flying beasts and all.”
All the seamstresses nod in agreement and laugh, and I wish them farewell.
I have a lot to think about as I continue through the courtyards and over to the main gates. Another group of refugees is leaving, heading for their homes, and the group of Veiled Virgins watch on sadly as they head out the gates.
They should be on their way back to their own villages by now, but many of them are orphans. Orphans are always the first ones in a village to be tithed.
A thin girl called Posette with her hair in a messy plait is chewing mournfully on a piece of bread and honey, watching the departing refugees. “I wish I was going home, but I was told never to return to my village after the Brethren took me.” She glances around at the battlements. “Maybe I could stay here if there are jobs within the castle.”
Another called Santha nods in agreement. “I’d like to stay. It’s not so bad here now the dragons have stopped flying overhead.”
I glance up at the skies to find them free of wings, and a smile spreads over my face. So they have. Zabriel really did that for us?
“If only we knew how to go about getting a job here,” Posette grumbles.
A little thread of excitement shoots through me. Maybe there is someone who can help them get jobs in the castle. The seamstresses seemed content, and I wonder if I could talk to the kitchen maids and chamber maids and find out if they’re similarly well-treated.
“I think I might know a way,” I tell Posette and Santha. “Let me ask around for you, and I’ll see what I can come up with. It will be hard work, though.”
“I’ll scrub floors and boil linens if it means I don’t have to go back to the cloisters or my old village,” Posette says, and Santha nods in agreement.
As I head back into the Great Hall, I remember what Zabriel suggested. Me, be a spokesperson for the refugees. I wonder if this is his crafty way of tying me to this castle, and by extension, him.
I remember how things were in my village and that when there was someone who needed help, people would stand around and say, “Someone should do something,” but nothing would ever get done. With a spike of guilt, I remember the sorry state of Biddy Hawthorne’s home. Someone should have done something for her. I can’t help her now, but I can speak up here, and if I stir up trouble and it gets me thrown out? So be it.
The only person I know in this place with even a smattering of authority is Zabriel, and I wonder if he’ll tell me to stop wasting his time if I ask him about castle jobs for the former Veiled Virgins.
I spot a tired-looking boy carrying platters back to the kitchen and ask him, “Excuse me, have you seen Zabriel?”
The boy gives me a baffled look. “Who?”
Someone clears their throat behind me, and I turn and see Captain Ashton of the wingrunners. “Commander Zabriel is in the cellars. Through that door, turn left, and down the stairs.”
I offer him a smile as I hurry away. “Thank you.”
The cellars turn out to be a cavernous underground space that smells of oak, hops, and pickled vegetables. There seems to be enough food down here to outlast a year-long siege, which I suppose is a good idea in a castle.
There’s a light flickering up ahead, and I follow it and turn a corner. Zabriel is lit by lamplight, hauling barrels over to a wooden platform where they’re hauled up through a trap door. Barrels of salted fish, from the smell of them.
My soft shoes aren’t making any noise, but as I approach, Zabriel freezes and turns around. He’s stripped down to his shirt, which is sticking to his sweaty body in a way that makes him look almost as naked as when I saw him in the water. His long, dark hair tumbles around his shoulders, and golden light dances over his sculpted features.
For a split second, my gaze drops to his tight breeches, and I remember in lurid detail what other parts of him looked like at the hot pools. I guiltily cut my eyes away.
“You came looking for me?” Zabriel asks, leaning on a barrel with a smile and a spark in those red eyes. “How can I help the lovely Isavelle?”
An indistinct voice calls from above, and Zabriel shouts back without taking his eyes off me, “Just one moment, Ulf. I’m talking to Lady Isavelle.”
