“Is that the kitchen?” I ask before I can stop myself.
I obviously knew there was one, but I’ve honestly never seen it. Didn’t even know where it was in this monstrosity.
“Yes, I believe so,” she calls over her shoulder. “We have no business in there, though. We’re above lingering in rooms meant for labor. That’s what Attendants are for.”
My fingers immediately wrap around Thayla’s wrist.
Riven snorts. “We’ve cooked for ourselves.”
She gasps, whipping around, and we all slam to a stop.
“What do you mean?”
“We cook our own food,” Amick clarifies.
Like it wasn’t clear enough.
She blinks repeatedly, truly struggling to understand. Without a word, she turns back around and starts yapping on about the mural painted on the windowless wall of her and our father.
It’s vile.
They have no clothes on.
Riven gags, then coughs as Kyzen elbows him and gives him a pointed look.
Fucking finally, the hall opens into a wide terrace and then down shallow steps into the gardens. They’re expansive and potent in smell, but at least there’s air out here, circulating it better than in the house.
“This is my favorite place to sit and relax. My best ideas come to me out here.”
Hedges trimmed in orderly patterns are layered and aligned to perfection. Flower beds bursting with color are spaced evenly. I spot several white stone fountains with water flowing in arcs spread across the area.
It’s more than I remember and beautiful, but painfully curated.
Thayla reaches for a flower, then stops herself before her fingers graze a petal. “This is quite impressive.”
Calista smiles over her shoulder, pleased. “Creation should be admired.”
As in, I’m glad you thought better before you touched my shit.
Thayla and Riven share a smirk as though they picked up on the undertone in her words and had a similar, awful fucking idea. I glare at the two of them.
We walk along a stone path, observing the absolute abundance of growth. Yet it’s all perfectly symmetrical.
Everything is trimmed. Measured. Guided into place.
No wild growth.
No stray branch left to choose its own direction.
“You don’t let anything overgrow,” I say.
“Overgrowth implies neglect.”
“Sometimes it implies freedom,” Thayla counters before she can stop herself, and her lips tighten as Calista turns slowly.
The air stills for half a breath as my brothers and I shift closer.
“Freedom,” she repeats thoughtfully, “is a matter of perspective.”
