“I did,” she agrees, and it feels pivotal, deeper than simply surviving plaster.
I don’t say anything more as I pull the tacks out of the rest of the rind and lift off the top layer of the mold. I keep my thoughts to myself because all I can think isthat’s my girl, and despite what happened here in the workshop today, she doesn’t want to hear anything like that yet.
Soon, I tell myself as I lean the top layer of the mold against a workroom wall. I lift Auset out of the frame, and her hands wrap around my neck as I do. I set her on her feet, and too quickly her hands drop away from me and she steps back.
Soonis all that floats in my mind as she disappears to the washroom to change.
Very soon.
ChapterTwenty-Eight
AUSET
Iwake on a gasp, sitting up with a startled jerk. Immediately, I scan my surroundings for the threat my subconscious is warning me of. Adrenaline works to flush away the grogginess of sleep, but all I see around me is night-draped walls and shadow-brushed furniture. I search, but there’s nothing alarming lurking anywhere. Consciousness is slow to chase away my confusion as the booming rhythm of my pulse sounds in my ears. I try to quiet the noise and orient myself.
I look around, expecting to find sweaty bodies lying all around me in some stage of rest, but no one’s there. The peppering of the night air with soft snores and sleep-filled groans is the cadence I’ve slumbered to since I can remember, but I’m not in the ludere anymore. There are no other blade slaves here. No one turning in their sleep in search of a more comfortable position on the hard sandstone floor. Not one telltale pinched brow in sight indicating that someone is in the throes of a nightmare. There are no quiet tip toes as someone sneaks off to the washroom for either a late night piss or a clandestine tryst.
I’m alone.
It’s something I’ve longed for, and yet now that it’s in my grip, there’s an undeniable unease that’s tightening my chest. Glancing around, I take in the dark looming furniture surrounding me. The subdued sound of waves crashing against the shore drifts in, and streaks of moonlight reach through the open window to my left. The moon is high in the sky, bathing me in its healing rays where I lie on the floor. I’m surrounded by a nest of soft towels and a supple bed sheet is crumpled around my ankles, as though I angrily shoved it down there at some point in the night. My pulse starts to calm as I quickly deduce that there’s nothing in here that poses any kind of threat.
It’s just me.
Me and the empty bed that’s too soft to sleep on; a tall wardrobe filled with neat, folded piles of the same tops and bottoms; and a darkened, empty bathing chamber. Exhaling a deep breath, I lie back, crooking an arm behind my head to cushion it against the dark wood floor. I study the silvery light that filters through the smooth glass of the raised windows and encourages a quiet calm to wash over me. I don’t know what woke me, but I’m safe and, from the feel of things, already healed from today’s exertions.
The stone of the ceiling captures my attention as I try to drift back to sleep, but out of nowhere, my stomach lets loose a deep indignant growl. I sit up and stare down at my abdomen, not at all appreciating the tone it’s taking with me.
“The sun handed the day over to the moon less than a handful of hours ago, and already you’re greedy for more food?” I ask, clutching a hand to my stomach when it gurgles another impatient demand.
With a scoff, I shake my head, but I push up from the ground, like I’ve been commanded, and tiptoe toward the door. Slowly, cautiously, I open the thick wood barrier and peek out into the dark corridor that looms on the other side. The Scorpions have made it clear that I’m not their prisoner, that I’m free to come and go as I please, but I sneak to the stairs anyway, looking around as though I expect one of them to come bounding out after me at any moment.
No one does.
When I snuck around the first time after I’d just woken up here, I thought the house slaves must still have been asleep or maybe they were required to keep a low profile and stay hidden. Turns out that the Scorpions don’t have any house slaves. According to Tarek, there is a clan of imps that live somewhere on the property. It seems their magic is tied to the castle itself, so keeping it in good shape is beneficial to them as well as the Scorpions. However, Tarek also stated that none of them ever see the imps at work. He doubted I would either. I wouldn’t know what to expect even if I did.
The only imp I’ve ever known is Figg, and that leaves a lot to be desired for her kind. It’s hard for me to picture several rotund and grumbling versions of her doing anything as strenuous as cleaning a whole castle. She could barely manage to sort out our togs at the ludere when required. When I mentioned that to Curio, he informed me that there are many different clans of imps, and each of them derives power from their surroundings in different ways. I have no idea what kind of imp Figg was, but if I had to guess, she charged up through whining and bossing others around unnecessarily.
My descent to the kitchens is uneventful, but unease tightens its hold around my chest even more as I’m met with nothing other than a strange and foreboding stillness. Of all the things I thought I’d feel once I was away from the ludere, loneliness was never one of them. I thought after all the years of being packed in far too tightly with too many fae in a sleeping chamber, a washroom, the hashery, the pits, that I would revel in the quiet that blankets this place, but there’s nothing soothing about it. I thought I’d settle easily into peace if ever given the chance, and yet all I feel is threatened by the tranquil hush all around me.
It seems I’m not as cut out for the calm as I’d hoped I’d be.
The large placid hall that leads to the kitchen greets me as I force myself to conjure images of some remote cabin in an unidentifiable land, where I sit in a large chair on a porch, serenely watching the weeks pass by. It’s a vision that I’ve harvested of what I want my life to look like once I’ve bought my freedom and forged my own path. No more death. No more violence. No more endless noise or a life so crammed with problems that there’s barely room forme.I’d live out the rest of my years in peace and relaxation, as I was due. However, as the stagnant, serene silence grows thicker all around me, it’s as though reality is setting my long-collected plans alight, the flames of which now mock my naive delusion that a simple, quiet life could ever be for me.
I hate to admit it, but as I make my way through the dark, sedate castle, I find myself longing for noise, for a touch of chaos, for something dangerous that feels familiar and right. I step into the kitchen, doing my best to dismiss these late night apprehensions. I’m probably just tired. I’ve only been here a day, which is really no time at all to adjust to the many differences between this place and everything I’ve ever known. But I find myself wondering. Do I like the taste of destruction because I was forced to stomach it for so long? Or do Ineedit? It’s probably too soon to say one way or the other, but it’s worth pondering.
Despite my efforts not to, I think back on my first months at the ludere. How I took to training. The way I flowed into it all like a stream to a river. I always saw it as survival, but what if it’s more than that? What if I was made for death and simply couldn’t see the truth of that past the chains and the whips and the masters?
I shrug that thought off. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m finally away from Tilleo and the ludere that makes me feel as though I have to decide everything right this very moment, but I don’t. I’m away from the chaos for the first time. It’s bound to take some adjusting. I need to be patient with myself—I’ve sure as fuck earned it.
I shut down all the disquiet and indecision spiraling through me, and close in on the cooler in the kitchen that’s disguised as a cupboard. Cold air kisses my worry-flushed face as I pull the doors open and take stock. I want to crow in victory at the shelves filled with food, but instead I hurry to grab a wrapped plate that has reddish strips of what looks to be dried meat on it. My stomach rumbles in approval as I pluck out more dishes and jars of things, my midnight feast coming together quite nicely. The cooler doors click shut, and I turn my attention to one of the ovens. I bite back the squeal of delight that tries to tip past my lips as several loaves of bread adorn the rack inside. I quickly free one and move to the drawer that I saw Riall pull knives from.
I select a long, tapered, sharp blade, ignoring that my heart skips with excitement at the sight of it, just like it did at the sight of food. I refuse to condemn myself for that though. I’m sure plenty of fae appreciate a well-crafted weapon in any environment. It’s not a sign. It’s natural.
I close the drawer, eagerly moving back to my fixings, when the air behind me subtly changes. This would probably mean nothing to the average fae. A breeze to be ignored, but I’m a blade slave, and the hair on the back of my neck rises with warning. Without hesitation, I spin to face the threat head-on. The knife that was just in my hand, the one that was making my heart patter with excited appreciation, is now flying dangerously in the direction of whoever just popped up behind me.
I have no idea who or what has crept in here, but as I whirl and loose my weapon, a shirtless Riall wasn’t high on my list of guesses. He plucks the incoming blade from the air a mere hairbreadth from his throat. He snatches the knife I sent spinning at him so easily and effortlessly that I’m momentarily awed by the skill of it instead of being immediately irritated that he snuck up on me in the first place.
He doesn’t look put out in the slightest that I almost just murdered him. Instead, he flips the knife in his hand until the handle is firmly cushioned in his palm, and then he looks down at it with a fond smirk stretching his plump lips.
