For two more weeks, that is.
I hear my name called again, closer now. Driven by urgency, I drop from the rooftop ledge to the awning over my bedroom window. Luckily, the apartments in the Gray Quarter are rather narrow, leaving me very little space to traverse. Still, I always get a rush of panic in the split second between letting go of the ledge and feeling my slippered feet touch the awning. Like always though, my feet meet their mark. Then it’s a matter of careful balance as I drop from the awning to the windowsill, through my window, and onto my bed. On swift feet, I hurry behind my faded dressing screen. A second later, my door swings open.
“Ember!” my stepmother barks. “Why aren’t you downstairs?”
“So sorry, Mrs. Coleman,” I say with as much regret as I can fake.
Her footsteps approach the dressing screen but—thankfully—stop on the other side. If she sees the state I’m in, she’ll know I’ve been outdoors. “What excuse do you have today?”
I clench my jaw as I pour water into my washbasin and begin to rinse the soot from my arms. “It’s barely sunrise, Stepmother.”
She releases an irritated huff. “We have errands to run first thing this morning. If we don’t get to Sonsbury Square before…” She trails off as if realizing I’m not worth explaining to. Instead, she uses the same weapon she battles me with time and time again. Her words come out slow, her tone laced with a sinister chill. “Do not argue with me. Justobey.”
The fear hits me first, then the pain. It’s sharp, like an iron blade twisting in my gut. I bite back a cry as sweat beads on my brow. My fingers grip the edges of the washbasin so hard I fear the porcelain might shatter beneath my hands.I’m obeying, I’m obeying,I repeat to myself until the pain starts to lessen.
That’s my least favorite part about bargains. They hurt when broken. If I were full fae, my disobedience could kill me. Since I’m only half fae, the mysterious magic that rules fae bargains isn’t as detrimental.
“I’m obeying.” This time I say it out loud, my voice barely above a whisper.
The magic seems satisfied by my assertion, for the pain quickly retreats. It’s still enough to leave me quaking with the reminder of what happens when I truly refuse my stepmother’s direct orders.
Mrs. Coleman takes another step closer to the screen. “Did you hear me?”
I clench my jaw, my body still trembling in the wake of my momentary agony. It’s a struggle to keep my voice even as I say, “I’ll be down as soon as I’m cleaned up and dressed.”
A long pause. Then, “Very well. Be quick about it. And close that damn window! You’ll send a draft through the entire apartment.” With that, her steps retreat.
My fear shifts to rage, my unspoken retort swirling through my mind like a storm.My bedroom is always drafty, regardless of the window being open or closed. That’s what happens when a bedroom is an attic, you breezing daft cow!
I bite the inside of my cheek, glaring down at the dirty wash water. “Two more weeks,” I whisper. That’s all I have to tolerate. After that, I’ll be nineteen and free from this stupid bargain. Free fromher.
With a slow exhale, I release the washbasin and finish scrubbing my arms. Then I strip off my nightgown and hose, replacing them with my regular daily wear—stockings, shift, corset, chemise, blue wool skirt, and a cream cotton blouse. All articles are faded hand-me-downs from my stepsister Clara, and the corset is so tattered I’m surprised I haven’t been impaled by my own stays yet.
Honestly, that sounds like a picnic compared to how I spend most of my days.
I pat my locket and arrange the gold chain around the high collar of my blouse. Then I don my manacles. Actually, it’s a bonnet, but it might as well be a ball and chain. The bonnet suppresses the part of me my stepmother hates. The part she wants no one outside our household to see.
My hair.
Unlike my mother’s pale blue, mine is turquoise, the same color as my eyes. A shocking thing to see amongst the stuffiest circles of human high society, setting me apart, providing proof of my fae heritage and evidence that my sylph mother lives on in me.
Always be wild. Promise me.
Gritting my teeth, I pin every teal strand beneath the bonnet. Not only is the hat hideous—a monstrosity of floral-patterned linen and nothing like the pretty bonnets that were fashionable twenty years ago—but it is also enormous. Perfect for keeping my face in shadow while making me look utterly ridiculous.
With a deep breath, I enjoy one last beat of being gloriously and peacefully alone, then join my already-bickering stepfamily downstairs.
* * *
A half-hour later,I trail behind Mrs. Coleman and my two stepsisters as we make our way through the Gray Quarter toward the heart of the city. The three figures walk clustered together, nearly identical in looks and height, all with blonde curls and pale, snooty faces. Clara, the shortest of the three by an inch or two, is seventeen—a year younger than me—while Imogen, a near-spitting image of Mrs. Coleman, is nearly twenty. They wear their best dresses, hats, and coats reserved only for public outings, a façade to hide the truth of our poverty.
Following the rule that I must act as a maid in public and remain separate from the family unit, I maintain several steps behind as we continue our walk, weaving through the outskirts of the Gray Quarter to avoid the foot traffic of factory workers. Soon smokestacks and industrial buildings are replaced by rows and rows of tightly knit apartment buildings, just a slight increase in luxury from ours. My stepfamily keeps a hurried pace, as if that will help them flee their association with the Gray Quarter. Finally, we cross Chairman’s Street where the housing grows sparser, larger, giving way to townhouses. The colors are brighter here, the streets cleaner. Mrs. Coleman releases a heavy sigh and slows to a more causal stride.
“Remind me why we came back here,” Clara whines. “Why couldn’t we have stayed in the Earthen Court? Things were fine there.”
“Fine, but going nowhere,” Mrs. Coleman snaps. “Neither you nor Imogen managed to secure a husbandyetagain. We’ve attended every court’s social season, one after the other, for three years in a row, and still, my daughters fail me.”
Imogen scoffs. “We haven’t been toeverycourt’s social season. Why won’t you take us to Autumn or Fire? Doesn’t Aunt Marie have a cottage near Maplehearth Palace?”
