Very few of the sconces dotting the hall are lit, leaving plenty of shadows for me to hide in if needed. I’m tempted to try to use them to get the fuck out of here, but I don’t know exactly how to do that and I don’t have time to waste trying to figure it out. I need to get food in my belly and figure out what to do beyond that. I sneak down the hall. Every once in a while, I pass a window that brightens the corridor, but to my surprise, I don’t find any guards wandering the halls. No salivating dogs come snarling out of the dark recesses, and no traps are tripped or alarms set off. I don’t know if I find that comforting or not.
I round a corner and freeze when I discover a wide staircase that leads down to an even wider foyer. At the front are two massive rectangular doors with carved panels of flowers, vines, and scorpions. I hold my breath and scan the area for hidden sentries, but there’s no one standing around to keep me from opening those doors and running. I once again debate the merit of just running, but there are too many things working against me to get very far. I have no money, no supplies, no idea where I am, and most importantly I have nowhere to go. I need to think things through. I don’t want to be owned or ordered around anymore, but I need to get the lay of the land and come up with a viable plan before I can run. I need to make sure whatever I do next actually gets me out and free and not hunted and destroyed.
I fill my chest with a deep fortifying breath as I step down gingerly onto the first stair. A crossbow bolt doesn’t sink into any part of my body, and none of the Scorpions stride from the shadows and ask me what the fuck I’m doing, so I speedily make my way down. When another set of stairs descend from the foyer down, I follow them. Tilleo’s kitchen was in the lower level of his manor; perhaps all big castles and houses are set up the same way.
Finally, I step out into a well-lit hall that makes me proceed with even more caution. I’m bound to run into house slaves down here, and I don’t know what they’ll do about me lurking. I doubt they’ll point me in the direction of food and ignore me beyond that, but I’ll deal with whatever happens when it does. I stand and listen at a few closed doors, but either the rooms on the other side are empty or the wood of the door is so thick that I can’t hear anything or anyone through it. I gently feel for any wards, but I don’t sense anything there.
I continue on until the end of the large hall leads to exactly what I was hoping to find, the kitchen. What I don’t expect, however, is to find it empty. I haven’t spent much time in one of these, but I thought there’d be cooks and slaves scurrying about to prepare meals and snacks and whatever else it is they do all day. It’s probably a long shot that I’ll find something edible sitting out and asking to be taken, but I look around expectantly anyway. Unfortunately, the wood counters are clean, the large ovens look cold, and the sinks are empty. The pans hanging in the corner are most certainly not going to cook something up on their own, and I sag in defeat.
I wouldn’t know how to make something if all the ingredients were lined up on the long prep table directly in front of me and someone told me step by step what to do. My stomach growls as I sigh. The heavy door to my right suddenly slams open out of nowhere. My shocked yelp is only drowned out by the bang of the door against the stone wall behind it. A tall, well-built male jumps when he sees me, almost dropping the heavy vegetable-laden basket clutched in his large hands.
“Shit,” I gasp as I watch the house slave nervously.
I clench my hands at my side, unsure what the big male is going to do, and I try to get control of my runaway heart that’s surging from the spike of adrenaline and the need to dosomethingthat just shot through me.
“You’re up,” the slave points out, shocked but not concerned that I’m standing in his kitchen. “Eacon said it would be a while…” He trails off as he moves to set his heavy load on the massive rectangular table in the center of the big kitchen. The top of it is stained and has score marks probably from chopping things in preparation for all the fancy dinners they must have in this place. My mouth starts to water, and I wipe at the corner of it, hoping I haven’t started actually drooling when the only food here is in my head. The male fae looks behind me as though he expects someone else to be there, and his features fill with confusion when he realizes it’s just me.
His hair is ash brown, but the light catches a few blond flecks scattered about his head. It’s short, like it’s just started to grow after being shaved. I recognize the cut—Tilleo made his male slaves wear their locks shorn too. A short, neat beard does nothing to hide the square shape of his jaw or his full lips. His nose is straight, and bright hazel eyes observe me as he uses his sleeve to clear his brow of sweat.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, his eyes dropping to my stomach as though he knows I was almost cleaved in half only a few days ago.
Maybe he was the slave who attended to me?
“Hungry,” I answer as I study the streaks of dirt on the otherwise clean cream-colored tunic that hangs down to the thighs of his dark brown britches.
His skin is sun-caressed but not desert-baked like mine now is. The corded muscles of his arms and back, and the tapered waist his well-fitted shirt outlines, tells me he spends a lot of time doing manual labor here. His thighs are huge, and I just barely stop myself from asking what kind of slave he is. He doesn’t look like a cook. I suppose he could be a crop tender, not that I would know one way or another. However, his basket full of soil-crusted vegetables makes me think I could be on the right track.
He rubs his hands together and strides confidently over to the sink to start washing his hands. “Of course you are. You’ve had a long journey,” he agrees, offering me a warm smile over his shoulder.
I’m surprised that he knows that, but then again, it would make sense for the Scorpions to inform their slaves that I’m here. I’m not sure if he attended to me or maybe saw his masters carry me in. I definitely didn’t get here by the power of my own two feet.
“What would you like to eat?” the slave asks jovially, and I go still.
I figured he’d just give me whatever he wanted or what might be about to go bad, but now he’s earnestly looking at me as though whatever I tell him I want, he’ll provide.
“Uh…um,” I stammer, not sure what to say. Would it be weird to ask for sand stag? We were allowed to have that sometimes in the ludere, and I know my body could use the nutrients. I hesitate, my eyes flitting from his sincere expression to random spots around the kitchen, as though the answer will be carved in the wood of the counter or the black metal of the cooktop. “Do you have porridge?” I finally ask, trying not to cringe as the question spills out.
The way his face falls with dismay tells me I didn’t do a good job at hiding my revulsion. “We can do better than porridge,” he encourages, and my stomach flips unexpectedly when he looks at me, a wry glint in his hazel eyes.
“What…what do you normally eat?” I counter, hoping that will force him to list some options.
I don’t know why I feel so awkward about the fact that I don’t know what else to ask for, but I do. I guess I could just ask for meat in general, but I’d feel like a dolt. For reasons that are lost to me, I don’t want this slave to look at me like that. I already feel like some strange interloper. I’m adrift in a sea where everything is unknown, but I don’t want to see that reflected in his eyes just yet. I don’t want him to confirm just how lost and out of place I am right now.
“We normally havequddockeggs, maybe some tubers, steak, fruit,” he explains. “It gets mixed up depending on what’s in season, but that’s a typical morning meal.”
I try to hide my shock, but he smiles, and I realize my mouth is open and my eyes are wide. I slip an indifferent mask into place and clear my throat awkwardly. The Scorpions make their male slaves wear their hair like Tilleo demanded, but they obviously take care of their people far better than my former master ever did. It should make me feel better about the fact that I’ve been bought and brought here, but I know better than to think things will work out like that for me.
“Have a seat,” the slave gestures to one of many stools tucked under the large prep table. “I’ll get some things going. The others will probably be down soon anyway,” he confides, and I hesitate to pull out a stool and sit down. It feels too comfortable, too casual, and my presence here is anything but that. “It’s okay,” he reassures softly. “You’re safe here.”
We stare at each other for a moment, and I let loose a deep breath and relent.
“Yeah, so I’ve been told,” I grumble, still not buying it.
I don’t care how kind his eyes are. Or that my cheeks start to heat as he traces my movements with an intense gaze until I sit down where he told me to. Thissafething is allnonsense. I don’t know the meaning of that word even if I did believe him and Eacon. Ignoring the house slave as he starts to move about the kitchen, I look out the broad window above the sinks and decide that it must be early morning. Something about the light gives the impression, but I could be completely wrong. It’s quite gloomy and gray outside, and I wonder if that’s normal or if the day will brighten as it progresses.
I could probably ask the slave. He seems amiable enough, but I can’t bring myself to let the questions slip off my tongue. It might be wise not to get overly friendly too fast, or he may not tell me and then things would be awkward.
“I’m Auset,” I offer instead as the silence in the kitchen starts to feel itchy against my skin.
