There’s writing on this page too, but it’s written in the same script that is unintelligible to me.I wish I knew how to read it.Learning about our kingdom’s smallest creatures has always been a bit of a hobby of mine. I’ve been drawing them since I first got my hands on a piece of charcoal.
Flipping over to the next page, I’m taken aback. “Dragon?!” The picture on the paper is big and imposing, wings stretched out wide, with a mouth that is billowing out—smoke? With its perfectly patterned scales and sharp teeth, I could easily imagine this is what the dragons of old once looked like. The one’s mother told us about when Wren and I would snuggle under the covers together and beg her for one more story. Before, my father would always ruin our fun.
She said they were just stories, tales from other villagers she’d heard growing up. Sometimes the dragon had two tails and one eye, sometimes the dragon had no legs, but this one—this one in the picture has one long curled tail, four legs, two eyes and sharp, pointed scales. This creature is impressive. This creature alters the chemistry of my heart because it also looks familiar.
It is what I imagined when my mother told us her stories and it looks exactly like the black beast that I can see curled within my chest. The dragon holding all of my secrets safe. The dragon created in memory of my mother.
My heart squeezing, I quickly flip the page.
“Oh, Goddess,” the words tumble from my lips.
“Looks like one scary giant spider thing to me.”Wren reminds me she’s still hanging around. She’s not far off, I guess, with eight long spindly legs. But, its body is thick, as are its legs.
“It can’t be a spider, its body is too big.”
THUD.Another book falls, making me shriek. This one lies closed a few feet across from my crouched position. The book looks similar in appearance to the old yellowing tome I’ve been flicking through on the floor.Intriguing. Looking up towards the tops of the towering stacks, I see nothing out of place. Not even a draft flows through this space.
How are books just falling like feathers on the wind?
Once again, my curiosity gets the better of me and brushing aside any lingering dust on the thick book I find some words that hold meaning for me. “A complete guide to fae history,” I read. “Includes both ancient fae and modern fae translations.”
What is ancient fae?
Neglecting my evening’s chores, I sit down on the floor and place the book in my crossed legs, flipping through its contents. My hands tremble as I scan the pages. Familiar and unfamiliar words stand out to me.
And I can’t help but think that this discovery is going to change everything.
three
Dove
Present Day
“Get up.” The wordsare spat at me as I push my bruised knees off the mosaic tile below. I’ve spent many movements, turns and rotations scrubbing these floors, and they still entrance me with their colourful designs of florals and tiny creatures. They are a veritable garden underfoot and presumably all hand-painted by a single person throughout a lifespan—well before my time, considering these floors are centuries old.
No one knows the exact cycle, but that’s because these floors and walls…do not belong to us.
“Damn turn dreaming, good for nothing, mute,” the old woman, Bridget, mutters as she reaches for my upper arm and yanks me up to my meagre five-foot height.
It is times like these that I hold a quick remark on the tip of my tongue.Maybe I could tell her to jump in the lake of the souls—the very lake that meanders by the temple gardens—or wish that her morning chores end in a face-first trip into some cow dung. Mostly, I pray she will just leave me alone, but that requires some words leaving my lips, and my body does not play fair when it comes to expressing myself, specifically when speaking to other people.
The sting of her sharp, serrated nails through the thin cloth of my blouse makes me wince. A scowl moves over my lips.
Lazy old bat.
She’s come to pass her jobs on to me again, a familiar dance between Bridget and myself.
“Here.” She shoves a dry rag in my hand, making me drop the wet sponge I’m holding. “Cardinal’s study needs dusting, and you know how my lungs wheeze,” she says, giving a non-committal cough. I roll my eyes and tug the rag from her hand, going to pick up the sponge and bucket I was using to clean the floors.
It is not as simple as swapping a much-begrudged task. I don’t get a choice in the matter.
You see, as the residentmutegirl, I am an easy target. If you miss changing one of the priestess’s sheets, blame it on the mute girl. If the stables aren’t mucked, blame it on the mute girl. If the silver isn’tshining, blame it on the mute girl. You get the picture. I am easy prey, and I truly can’t blame them for seeing me as such.
We are all in the same boat.
Servants of circumstance.
There is no way to get ahead. The work within the temple is endless, and there is no end in sight. It grates on the soul, especially when you are trapped within the confines of your own boundaries. We are merely pawns in a bigger game, and everyone is playing for themselves. I learnt a long time ago that to play the game meant destruction. A slow breaking of morals. A full extraction of long-forgotten hearts and souls.
