Greta’s expression doesn’t change.
“The lord’s clothes must always be washed by hand. That’s his preference, and now that’s your job.”
I start to argue, but she cuts me off.
“I have other work to do.”
She turns on her heel and leaves me standing there alone.
I stare at the pile of clothing and can’t believe the stupidity of the task. Only poor people who can’t afford a washing machine do this. Even my family had an old washing machine that died a few years ago, and after that, yes, I had to wash my father’s clothes and mine by hand. But this is different. This is Altair being deliberately cruel.
If that’s what he wants, I’ll do it. I fill the basin with water, add soap, and start scrubbing his shirts and trousers. The work is hard and my arms ache. After an hour, my hands are red from the detergent, my skin pruned and sensitive, and my fingertips sore. Sweat drips down my back despite the cool spring air.
Then my cuff starts burning. At first, it’s just warm and uncomfortable, then it gets hotter and hotter, until I can’t ignore it. It feels like my wrist is on fire. I dry my hands on my uniform, wincing at how raw they feel, and go back inside to find him.
I head toward the grand staircase, assuming he’d be in his chambers. But the cuff burns unbearably hot. I stumble back, confused and in pain. I try a different direction, and the cuff cools slightly. I realize the cuff is guiding me. When I go the wrong way, it burns. When I go the right way, it gets colder.
I curse under my breath and call him all the bad names under the sun. The cuff guides me down a corridor, through a sitting room and into another hallway. I finally arrive in a grand dining room where the table is set for only one person at the head.
Altair sits there waiting, his golden wings spread behind him, his tail curled around the chair leg. His fingers drum impatiently on the edge of the table.
“There you are. What took you so long? I’m starving, and there’s no one to serve me my food.”
I’m rubbing my wrist, hissing in pain from the cuff. I’m also annoyed with him for summoning me like a dog.
“That’s not my job. There are plenty of people who can serve you your food.”
His eyes narrow.
“Your job is what I say it is. Now, go bring what the cook has prepared.”
I sigh and roll my eyes, but I do as he says. The sooner I do it, the sooner I can get away from him.
I go back to the kitchen, where the cook and servants stare at me. I load a tray with covered dishes and make several trips back and forth. I set a delicate soup in a silver bowl before him, garnished with herbs and cream. Then roasted quail with crispy skin, arranged on a bed of wild rice. Grilled vegetables drizzled with butter and garlic. Fresh bread still warm from the oven, soft cheese, and honeyed figs. I bring a bottle of fine red wine, the label showing it’s from a prestigious vineyard. I set each dish before him carefully. He doesn’t thank me, nor does he acknowledge me.
As Altair starts filling his plate, I turn to leave. He stops me.
“You will stand here while I eat, in case I need anything. For instance, you may pour the wine.”
I want to strangle him. I realize that I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday, and my stomach is empty and cramping. I stand there watching him eat, and it’s torture.
I take the bottle of wine and uncork it. I fill a glass, the dark red liquid catching the light. I lift the glass to pass it to him, but then I pretend to drop it. Wine spills all over his lap, soaking his expensive trousers.
Altair jumps from the table, glaring at me. Wine drips down his legs onto the floor.
I look at him defiantly, not even trying to hide my satisfaction.
“I’m so sorry, Lord Aurellion. I did tell you I’m not the right person for this job.”
I expect him to explode, but instead, Altair grins at me. It’s a dangerous grin, and it sends a shiver through my body. He sits back down in his wine-soaked trousers and motions to a napkin on the table.
“Use that to clean the mess you’ve made.”
My blood boils with anger. I will not clean him up. I won’t touch him, and I’m ready to suffer the consequences.
“No.”
Altair growls at me, a sound that’s not quite human. As he does it, his face morphs. His features sharpen and become more reptilian, and his eyes flash with dragon slits. My heart gallops in my chest, fear spiking through me, but I doubt he will actually hurt me. He paid too much for me to damage his property. I still refuse to move.
