“Let’s start over. I’m Sophia.” I smile.
She blinks up at me, still sitting in the hay. “I’m…I’m Anya.”
“Nice to meet ya, Anya,” I grin, offering her a hand up. She takes it, her fingers trembling a bit.
I straighten up, dusting off the front of my shirt. “You new here too, Anya?”
She nods, biting her lower lip. “Been here for six months,” she says quietly.
“Six months? Huh.” I scratch at my chin, pretending to ponder. “I’ve been here for, what, less than a week? Guess I just broke your record for ‘newest kid on the block.’”
Anya blinks, then giggles nervously. The sound is quiet, almost lost in the distant whinnying of horses.
“Just messing with you,” I respond, my chuckle coming out a little huskier than intended. “My first day? Nearly did a death-defying tumble down the stairs. But Luka – I mean, Mr. Ivankov – he—”
A sudden rush of warmth floods through me, the memory of Luka’s solid form beside me, saving me from the epic plunge. I shake my head, shoving that memory back down where it belongs.
Not now, Sophia.
“I mean, lucky for me, I didn’t turn into a pancake on my first day of work,” I correct quickly, my voice breezy.
She gives a hesitant giggle, and I take it as a victory.
“Guess we’re the newbies, huh?” I say, grinning at her. “Let’s be friends.”
She gives a hesitant smile back. “Friends?”
“Sure,” I say, clapping her on the shoulder. “Welcome to the club. You, me, and the rest of the outcasts.”
There’s a momentary shift in her eyes then, a quick flicker of something darker, more desperate before she masks it with a forced smile.
What was that?
“So…got any insider info on sidestepping the dragon lady?” I ask, quickly switching gears as I lean closer, my voice low and tinged with playful sarcasm.
She gives me a confused look. “Dragon lady?”
“Svetlana,” I explain. “Head maid. You know – tall, scary, could probably kill a man with her glare.”
Anya’s gaze flickers at the mention of Svetlana, like she’s battling an inner demon. Then she morphs back into her usual shy self.
Guessing we probably need another change of subject, I try something else. “Can I ask you something?” I throw in casually.
“Ask what?” she responds.
“Your age. You look…pretty young. Are you from one of the colleges nearby?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she reveals, “Me, I’m twenty. But not from here.”
“I kind of figured that from your accent,” I admit.
“I am from Kosova,” she discloses, her voice matter-of-fact. “My mama, she…sell me to work here.”
“Sold you?” I sputter, feeling a chill creep up my spine. “You mean, like…human trafficking?”
She nods, her expression remaining calm, as if she’s discussing the weather and not her life-shattering ordeal. “Yes. It’s quite normal where I come from. Many girls…they are taken away.”
“But why are you here, then? If you were sold, I mean,” I stammer out, my brain whirling with the reality of Anya’s casual confession.
