hardened for someone so young.
“Renata,” I say, tucking the loose strands of my hair into a low knot. “Have you got a system?”
“Did. Three of my girls are sick to their stomachs with an illness going around. But if you ask me, at least one of them’s not drinking their irvena tea and will wind up here again in nine months with a babe strapped to her back.”
Another just sidles up beside her and flaps her hands. “Father Dragomar says that tea should be forbidden.”
“Of course he’d say that, Jacinta,” Claudia says, rolling her eyes. The gesture reminds me of Margo, and I’m surprised that I find myself missing her. It only lasts a moment. “It’s hard to fill up a cathedral when near half the population went to the plague heap and the rest to the war against—you know who.” Claudia points at me, and it’s almost comical the way she does it.
“Claudia, she’s right here.” Jacinta’s pretty brown eyes crinkle, and then they laugh. A heart-shaped birthmark covers her clavicle and chest. There was once a time when a mark like that would have gotten her accused of being Moria.
“I can carry the oak,” I say.
“We don’t use oak ash for the lords and ladies, and, well, you,” Jacinta says. “Seaweed. Use these baskets for hauling. Don’t forget an apron.”
I get to work with the others, sweating through the simple blue dress Leo stuffed me in this morning. I load baskets full of seaweed and bring them to be burned down to ash. The other servants eye me with reservation, but I keep quiet and work. It reminds me of doing chores in ángeles.
Once my task is done, I fetch water to boil and help them strain the ash without being told to. The soap’s finished just in time for the next cart of linens to be rolled into the courtyard. As the sun moves across the sky, the discomfort I sensed from the other servants seems to wane.
I wish I had learned more of Sayida’s and Dez’s easy charm. They could walk into a room and disarm anyone, even without the use of their powers. How do I find the person who tends to Castian’s rooms? Though, at the rate Claudia hands out her opinions, I may just have to stick around her and wait.
While the water is being changed and the fires rebuilt, the scarred older maid steps into the courtyard. Claudia immediately approaches her, helping the woman carry the food out. I watch Claudia say a few words, but am unable to make them out. The older maid only smiles in return.
“Come on and eat,” Jacinta says. It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to me.
Under the shade of a spindly tree, Claudia offers me a bowl of vegetable soup, and I wish this gesture didn’t make my heart ache the way it does. Not even during my years at ángeles, among my own people, was kindness offered this easily, and now here, in my enemies’ kitchen, I’m handed a bowl of it. I bite back the bitterness that wells up in my heart and breathe in the savory scents of oregano and rosemary.
As I dig in, I notice the older maid sitting far away, by herself. Claudia follows my concerned gaze.
“It’s not polite to stare,” Claudia teases.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Claudia shrugs, unfazed. “Surely you’re used to it yourself.”
“What happened to her?”
“Davida? Depends on who you ask,” Claudia responds, “but all of us here know the truth.” She leans in for dramatic effect, clearly excited to be the one to tell the story. “Don’t talk back to the prince if you want to keep your tongue.”
I gasp in shock. The barbaric punishment for such a small infraction fills me with fresh hate.
“She was about to marry a general and everything,” another servant girl says.
“Shut it,” Jacinta mutters. “Leave Davida alone.”
“Pity about Hector.” Claudia sighs, seemingly more from exhaustion than from sympathy. “Lost his hand at Riomar. Never married, neither.”
I want to voice my anger, but how can I? I’m the justice’s marionette girl. I bled in the stone floor of the throne room. Anything I say, especially down here, would make its way through the palace faster than a flash of lightning.
The other women smile curiously at me. One of them eventually builds up enough courage to ask a question. “How come you’re not up in the tower with the other quiet ones?”
“Quiet ones?” I ask.
“The Hand of your lot,” Claudia explains.
What