Page 69 of Queen of Nothing

I stare at the back of Sal’s head—and wish I’d let Oliver take me home.

12

I hate my job.

I didn’t know what the work would be when I spotted the ‘HELP WANTED’ sign in the window a few weeks ago.

Maybe I shouldn’t have gone into the general store that day—a shop that also moonlights as a liquor store and the town’s only post office.

Wish I didn’t have to get a job at all.

The pawning of the Jacob & Co watch brought us a little more than a hundred thousand dollars, and if I don’t work, then Sofía’s fees will eat through our funds too quickly.

So I unpack and cut and fold boxes.

Box after box after box.

The razor thin blade cringes my bones with every swipe through the cardboard. How easily it cuts, like it’s gliding through warm butter.

Once all the cardboard is cut up, I start sorting the stock on the tall, caged trolley to be rolled out front.

This is servant work.

I just can’t get used to it, not even after three years of living as a krum.

A weight sinks in my chest.

Three years and… three months.

I’m softly startled as I work out the maths.

It feels like a long time, but a short time.

It feels like forever, but no time at all.

And still, my old life niggles into my thoughts.

The pout pulls down the corners of my mouth. The unwillingness furrows my brow.

And I hit the stock down on the trolley harder.

Moodier.

Because this—

This is not the life I imagined for myself.

Not ever.

I’m just a servant now. A low-paid one, too. Not Mr Younge, Mrs Younge, or Abigail.

I’m the woman in the backroom who stocks trolleys and cuts boxes. Then I leave, pick up a kid from daycare, and go home to bad food in a small, crammed apartment.

I grab the blade from the workshop bench, then start hacking up the last of the boxes into smaller pieces that can fit into the bin.

My hands work monotonously. Instinctively.

I’ve done this so many times now that, even as I fight off the memories of home and comfort and wealth, my hands move without thought.