According to the clock on the wall, it’s nearly half four in the morning. The wake-up bell will ring in thirty minutes. Stars, what I would give to sleep until noon. Instead, I collect my uniform draped over the lone chair, bringing it and my towel to the bathing room at the end of the corridor.
Steam warms my cheeks when I step inside the blessedly empty space that stinks like rotten eggs. I hang my things on a hook inside one of the five stalls and pull the thin curtain, removing my sleeping shift before stepping beneath the steady stream of water spurting from a spout in the red stone wall. Showers. Another luxury I’ve missed. You never feel as clean in a tub as you do in a shower.
The tension in my muscles drains away, disappearing into the long trough carved into the stone floor. Closing my eyes, I imagine the water beating my wings. Cascading down my feathers. Collecting between my shoulder blades.
I miss them.
I miss a lot of things.
As good as this feels, standing here all day isn’t an option. I wash quickly, but the steam makes it impossible to get dry. With my towel wrapped around myself, I throw my hair over my shoulders to hide my scars and hurry back through the chilly corridor to my room.
Despite being underground, the space is infinitely nicer than the inn where I had been staying. The best part is, it didn’t cost me so much as a copper, which is handy considering I left my bag behind. I thought about returning to retrieve it, but why? Those garments were a constant reminder of my time in the human realm. A time I’d love to forget even happened.
After drying myself, I slip into the plain white undergarments they gave me. The knickers are a bit loose at my hips, and the bralette is a bit tight, flattening my breasts and making it difficult to draw in a deep breath. The white stockings and plain cotton dress fit fine enough, although my slippers are far too big. Still, I’ve worn worse.
I tuck my mask, hood, and gloves into my pocket and make my way to the canteen where we had dinner last night. The food hadn’t been good per se, but, again, I’ve had worse.
Conversations buzz as the trestle tables slowly fill with men and women all in white. I follow one of them to where a man slops milky glop into clay bowls. Whatisthat? It looks vile.
Although I thank him for the food, I have a feeling I’ll be cursing him after the first bite. Braith waves at me from a table near the far wall, warm fae light making her pale skin glow.
I’m still not sure what to make of her. She seems nice and helpful, but trust can’t be earned in a day, and she has made her hatred of Scathians quite plain. If she finds out I’m one of them, there is no telling how she will react.
Keeping my head down, I make my way through the maze of tables to where she sits with three other servants, two brown-haired women and one silver-haired man, all wearing the same narrow-eyed expressions as they watch me approach.
Braith pats the empty bench to her right. “Everyone, this is Wynn. Wynn, this is Jeston, Mari, and Del.”
I nod to each of them, lowering myself onto the bench and setting my bowl beside Braith’s empty one. The women offer polite hellos and then return to their breakfasts.
“Your eyes are strange,” the man, Jeston, says around a mouthful of whatever we’ve been served. Pretty sure it’s supposed to be porridge.
“Jeston,” Braith hisses, her cheeks turning pink.
“What? They are. I can’t be the only one who has noticed.”
I dip my spoon into the bowl, my stomach grumbling with hunger. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing they’ll be covered by a mask, isn’t it?”
Jeston’s lips tilt in a smirk before he scoops another spoonful of glop and shoves it into his mouth.
Braith kicks him beneath the table. “I thought I told you to be nice.”
He curses and tries to kick her back but misses when Braith tucks her legs beneath her on the bench. The two other women giggle. “You’ll have to excuse Jeston,” Braith says. “He was born without a filter.”
Sounds like he was born without manners too. “You two know each other?” I assume.
She nods. “Most of us grew up together south of the city.”
“What about you?” Jeston asks, stacking the empty bowls together and glaring at mine like I’m delaying him.
The glop tastes like nothing at all. The only upside is that it quiets my hunger and warms my bones.
What about you?
That is a good question. What do I want my backstory to be? If I’m supposed to be Wynn, perhaps I should stick to detailsabout her life so it’s easier to keep things straight. “My parents are originally from Nimbiss.”
Mari and Del exchange a look before turning toward where Jeston’s smirk has become a scowl.
“Let me guess: You’re looking for a free ride back home,” he clips, his jaw ticking. “You’re too late. They’ve already filled the household.”