I splash another handful of icy water onto my face. Whatever I witnessed during the night is far beyond my wildest imagination. It’s also a sharp reminder of my own insignificance. If not even newborns are safe from the wrath of the Father, where does that leave me? I’m not even a free being—I am Property for Father’s sake; I live at the whims of my very human master.
Slipping a thick gray wool dress over my linen shift, I button it to my chin and savor its comforting warmth.
Should I sell the information? It is, after all, why I risk my hide every night. Still, the severity of the situation makes me question my plan. There’s no doubt that information on the minister’s involvement with infanticide and shadow creatures will bring good money, but is it worth the risk?
Chewing on my lip, I push a couple loose strands of ash-brown hair under my linen coif and fasten the veil that covers the bottomhalf of my face. Information like this could bring me money.Enoughmoney. I’ll discuss it with Em and take it from there, I decide. If she’ll even listen. I pluck a piece of lint off my apron. Lately, our conversations feel more like negotiations than the whispered conspiracies we used to share.
With one last glance into the mirror, making sure I look presentable, Ihead for the door.
A wave of warmth hits me as I step into the kitchen. Steam rises from a pot of simmering porridge, and I take a deep breath, cherishing the comforting aroma, allowing my shoulders to drop as the heat of the hearth chases away the chill. The soft gray light of dawn seeps through the windows, spilling over loaves of bread cooling on a wooden rack. The portly elderly cook, her hands dusted with flour, turns toward me as I close the door.
“G’morning, Laïna.” She smiles.
“Good morning, Mrs. Cooker,” I sign. Keeping my gaze low, I give the older woman a deep curtsy.
“Oh, stop that nonsense, will ye?” She waves her spoon at me. “Sit. Breakfast’s almost ready.” She gestures toward the simmering porridge.
“I’m not hungry,” I sign. It’s not a lie—the night’s events left me with little hunger.
“Then why are ye here in the kitchen?” Mrs. Cooker narrows her eyes at me. “I swear ye get skinnier by the day, lass. Look at ye!” She waves at me with her spoon again. “As pale as a sheet!” Striding across the room, she pokes my belly, causing my treacherous stomach to rumble loudly in response.
She gives me a pointed look as I wave her spoon away and shakes her head with a look of exasperation.
“Ye not gonna be of much value if ye faint from exhaustion, now are ye?”
Ushering me toward a seat at the end of the table, she adds a generous spoonful of butter onto the top of the porridge, then pushes the bowl toward me. “Eat.”
I flinch. It doesn’t feel right that I eat well when most of the city is on the brink of starvation.
She brings me a mug of milk and sits down opposite me, her gaze unwavering, as if she wants to make sure I eat every bite. “Master Coperie will dispose of ye if ye too weak to fulfill yer duties, lass.”
I trace the lines in the wood of the weathered kitchen table, pretending not to notice her scrutinizing gaze. We’re both well aware of what “dispose” truly means.
“It’s not like I fulfill my duties now either,” I sign.
Her shoulders sag. “No bleed?”
I shake my head.
“Ye cannot give up hope yet.”
I rub my chest, feeling the hollowness inside like a physical void. There’s less chance with each passing day. I’m a grown woman, after all. I’ll be twenty-one by the time the leaves change.
I give her a faint nod, though I don’t believe it. I’ve tried everything humanly possible. “For a while, I thought it would be a blessing...” Heat rises in my cheeks as I sign, my gaze fixed on the table. There is no way I’ll ever be suited to pleasure Coperie—a master may not bed his property until she has had her first bleed.
“I know... I know so very well, Laïna.” She sighs. “Let me see yer hands.”
I hesitate. Clenching my teeth together, I peel off both gloves, revealing the painful blistered skin on my palms.
Noticing her pained expression, I pull my hands out of her grasp. “I’ve told you I don’t want your pity.”
If she’s offended, she doesn’t show it. “Everyone needs someone, lass,” she says as she walks to the corner cabinet and retrieves a small jar. “Ye not meant to fight all yer battles alone.”
I turn away from her, unable to bear her pained expression. Alone sounds perfectly fine to me. Alone means I’m no one’s property.
“I found this at the market.” She hands me a small jar. “It should help a little. Rub yer hands morning and evening. It will dull the pain.” Her gaze sweeps over me. “As well as anywhere else ye may need it.” There is genuine sorrow in her deep brown eyes. “Father knows I wish I could do more for ye, lass...”
I shake my head, my hands moving quickly. “I don’t want you to interfere on my behalf,” I sign. “It won’t change anything; it will only get you whipped. At your age, that will be as good as a death sentence.” My hands fall back into my lap.
