Too many sounds, not enough air.
Bayard stops his ranting abruptly. His eyes go wide, then he immediately holds a hand across his mouth. Grabbing my wrist, he starts to pull me through the building. I want to shake him off, but he’s walking so quickly, I can barely keep up. Bayard drags me like this all the way to the kitchen. There, he finally lets go of my wrist and shakes himself off.
He stares at me intently. Silently. I get this odd feeling, like he’s trying to look through me. Then his face falls.
“You wouldn’t last a day without me,” he says, voice icy.
His eyes run up and down my body slowly. I feel dirty. The way he looks at me, the sensation of his papery fingers on my wrist. I rub my skin as he clears his throat.
“Chop some wood today, and if there’s time, sweep,” he says flatly. “You’ll have to take the axe with you. It’s in the closet over there,” he adds pointing to a small door I hadn’t noticed at the other end of the kitchen. Without waiting for an answer, he leaves the room.
I’m left in the kitchen, utterly confused. Humiliation still sits heavy in my stomach, and the strangeness of the last ten minutes doesn’t help to alleviate any of it.
I shake out my hands. My body is wound too tightly with the need to both scream and laugh. It’s only been a few days in this castle, but things are already so… I stop myself before I can spiral but—I can’t believe I undressed in front of Abas like it was nothing.
I’ve always been reckless, sure. Usually, I don’t even bother to consider if something may or may not be a bad idea. But I’ve never been in the habit of getting naked in front of people.There’s something about Abas, though, something that makes me want to both obey and provoke him, push him until he— Did I enjoy the way he treated me? A part of me always liked… No. I’m not doing this right now.
I head to the sink, let the water run for a whole minute, then drink it straight from the tap. The water is incredibly cold, but I close my eyes and let it drip over my face. When my lungs protest for oxygen, I pull my head out and splash the rest on my neck and forearms. I slide down to the floor, back against the old wooden cupboard. With my eyes, I follow the cracks along the walls, water dripping down my face and onto the tiles below. The cracked plaster reveals dark bricks behind it.
When the floor starts to warm beneath my hands, I jump up, suddenly feeling a lot less welcome sitting there.
Then I remember Bayard’s words and reluctantly head over to the closet.
I suppress a groan as soon as I lift the axe. It’s heavier than it looks, and my still sore muscles protest and whine. This day is going swiftly from bad to worse.
I find a half-felled tree and a chopping block close to the back entrance, then pull my headphones on and wonder how many more first-time chores this strange job will throw at me.
No matter how I grab the axe, it feels wrong in my hands. It slips and stumbles, stubbornly pulled down by something that feels stronger than gravity. Like it refuses to be wielded by me. Every method I try feels equally ridiculous, but after too many pathetic attempts and an embarrassing amount of missed hits, I manage to split open my first log.
At first, I’m frustrated. My body protests every new movement. I feel useless, hacking at each log for far too long, each swing worse than the last. But soon enough, my body finds a kind of hypnotic rhythm, and the force I’m wielding seems to help release something tightly wound inside me.
Swing.
Thud. Crash. Crack.
The too-loud cawing of a crow brings my attention back to the grounds. I drop the axe and blink at the sudden change of light. Had it always been this bright? Thick sun rays squeeze between the clouds, dripping onto the hedges along the castle walls. A murder of crows circles the nearest tree. A soft breeze, too gentle and fragrant, carrying the scent of spices, caresses my face.
I close my eyes, letting my skin absorb the sudden warmth. But the bird’s call draws my eye to the edge of the woods. A dark figure walks along it, a man dressed all in black. The crows leave the tree and fly in ever smaller circles above him. I strain my eyes to see who it is.
Black waves dance in the breeze as he lifts his unnaturally large hand in front of him. A crow breaks from the murder, landing on his outstretched finger. The man strokes the bird with his other hand. The rest of the flock caws in unison.
I gape at the scene. Was Abas really petting a crow?
I blink in disbelief, but when my eyes open again, I see no one at the edge of the forest.
I carefully scan the treeline, but there’s nothing even vaguely human-shaped.
The comforting breeze turns into a chilly wind and burrows into the fibres of my livery. I shiver, drawing my arms close around me. Then I remember a desolate castle, a needy axe, and sore muscles.
I wonder if it’s late enough to go back inside and have supper, but the pathetically small pile of logs is spurring me on to continue chopping. I grab the next chunk with effort—even the smaller pieces are much heavier than they look—and try to get back into the rhythm.
Though I still feel clumsy and weak, at least now I’m able to split every log. I don’t know for how long I continue chopping, but eventually, my shirt is soaked in sweat, and my arms are too weak to lift the axe. I drop it where I stand and head back into the castle.
The moment I enter the kitchen, a towel is held in front of my eyes. I step back, startled.
Abas is leaning against the wall, holding out the fabric with one finger. I look at him, confused, wondering if this is some sort of test, but his expression reveals nothing. When I don’t move, he holds the towel closer to my face.
I take it and gratefully wipe the sweat from my forehead.
