by Sabaa Tahir
Page 26
“Be careful,” she says softly. “The Commandant sees things. Knows things she shouldn’t. ” The girl hurries ahead of me, as if wishing to physically escape the words she’s just spoken. “Come, I’m supposed to take you to Cook. ”
We make our way to the kitchen, and as soon as I walk in, I feel better.
The space is wide, warm, and well lit, with a giant hearth and stove squatting in one corner and a wooden worktable sprawled in the center. The roof drips with strings of shriveled red peppers and paper-skinned onions. A spice-laden shelf runs along one wall, and the scent of lemon and cardamom permeates the air. If not for the largeness of the place, I could be back in Nan’s kitchen.
A stack of dirty pots rises from a sink, and a kettle of water boils on the stove. Someone has laid out a tray with biscuits and jam. A small, white-haired woman in a diamond-patterned dress identical to mine stands at the worktable, chopping an onion with her back to us. Beyond her is a screened door that leads outside.
“Cook,” the girl says. “This is—”
“Kitchen-Girl,” the woman addresses her without turning. Her voice is strange—raspy, as if she’s ill. “Didn’t I ask you to wash those pots hours ago?”
Kitchen-Girl doesn’t get a chance to protest. “Stop your dawdling and get to it,” the woman snaps. “Or you’ll be sleeping with an empty belly, and I’ll not feel a shred of guilt. ”
When the girl grabs her apron, Cook turns from her onion, and I stifle a gasp, trying not to gawp at the ruin of her face. Ropy, vivid red scars run from her forehead down across her cheeks, lips, and chin, all the way into the high neck of her black dress. It looks as though a wild animal clawed her to shreds and she had the misfortune of surviving. Only her eyes, a dark, agate blue, remain whole.
“Who—” She takes me in, standing unnaturally still. Then, without explanation, she turns and limps out the back door.
I look at Kitchen-Girl for aid. “I didn’t mean to stare. ”
“Cook?” Kitchen-Girl moves timidly to the door, opening it a crack.
“Cook?”
When no response comes, Kitchen-Girl glances between me and the door. The kettle on the stove whistles shrilly.
“It’s nearly ninth bell. ” She twists her hands together. “That’s when the Commandant has evening tea. You’re to take it up, but if you’re late. . . the Commandant. . . she’ll—”
“She’ll what?”
“She—she’ll be angry. ” Terror—true, animal terror—fills the girl’s face.
“Right,” I say. Kitchen-Girl’s fear is contagious, and I hurriedly pour water from the kettle into the mug on the tray. “How does she take it? Sugar? Cream?”
“She takes cream. ” The girl rushes to a cupboard and pulls out a covered pail, spilling some of the milk. “Oh!”
“Here. ” I take the pail from her and spoon out the cream, trying to stay calm. “See? All done, I’ll just clean up—”
“There’s no time. ” The girl shoves the tray into my arms and pushes me toward the hall. “Please—hurry. It’s almost—”
The bells begin to toll.
“Go,” the girl says. “Get up there before the last bell!”
The stairs are steep, and I’m walking too fast. The tray lilts, and I barely have a chance to grab the sugar pot before the teaspoon clatters to the ground.
The bell tolls for a ninth time and falls silent.
Calm down, Laia. This is ridiculous. The Commandant probably won’t even notice if I’m five seconds late, but she will notice if the tray is in disarray.
I balance the tray in one hand and sweep up the spoon, taking a moment to neaten the crockery before approaching the door.
It swings open as I raise my hand to knock. The tray is out of my arms, the cup of hot tea sailing past my head and exploding against the wall behind me.
I’m still gaping when the Commandant pulls me into her office.
“Turn around. ”
My whole body shakes as I turn to face the closed door. I don’t register the zing of wood cutting through the air until the Commandant’s riding crop slices into my back. The shock of it drops me to my knees. It comes down thrice more before I feel her hands in my hair. I yelp as she brings my face close to hers, the silver of her mask nearly touching my cheeks. I clench my teeth shut against the pain, forcing back tears as I think of the slaver’s words.
The Commandant would rather put a scim in you than deal with tears.
“I don’t tolerate tardiness,” she says, her eyes eerily calm. “It won’t happen again. ”
“Y-yes, Commandant. ” My whisper is no louder than Kitchen-Girl’s had been. It hurts too much to speak any louder. The woman releases me.
“Clean up the mess in the hall. Report to me tomorrow morning at sixth bell. ”
The Commandant steps around me, and moments later, the front door slams shut.
The silverware rattles as I pick up the tray. Only four lashes and I feel as if my skin has been torn open and drenched in salt. Blood drips down the back of my shirt.
I want to be logical, practical, the way Pop taught me to be when dealing with injuries. Cut the shirt off, my girl. Clean the wounds with witch hazel and pack them with turmeric. Then bandage them and change the dressings twice a day.
But where will I get a new shirt? Witch hazel? How will I bandage the wounds with no one to help me?
For Darin. For Darin. For Darin.
But what if he’s dead? a voice whispers in my head. What if the Resistance doesn’t find him? What if I’m about to put myself through hell for nothing?
No. If I let myself go down that path, I won’t make it through the night, let alone survive weeks of spying on the Commandant.
As I pile shards of ceramic on the tray, I hear a rustle on the landing. I look up, cringing, terrified the Commandant has returned. But it’s only Kitchen-Girl. She kneels beside me and silently mops up the spilled tea with a cloth.
When I thank her, her head jerks up like a startled deer’s. She finishes mopping and scurries down the stairs.
Back in the empty kitchen, I place the tray in the sink and collapse at the worktable, letting my head fall into my hands. I’m too numb for tears. It occurs to me then that the Commandant’s office door is probably still open, her papers strewn about, visible to anyone with the courage to look.
Commandant’ s gone, Laia. Go up there and see what you can find. Darin would do it. He’d see this as the perfect chance to gather information for the Resistance.
But I’m not Darin. And in this moment, I can’t think about the mission, or the fact that I’m a spy, not a slave. All I can think about is the throbbing in my back and the blood soaking my shirt.
You won’t survive the Commandant, Keenan had said. The mission will fail.
I lower my head to the table, closing my eyes against the pain. He was right. Skies, he was right.
PART II: THE TRAILS
XIV: Elias
The rest of leave disappears, and in no time, Grandfather is pelting me with advice as we roll toward Blackcliff in his ebony carriage. He spent half of my leave introducing me to the heads of powerful houses and the other half railing at me for not solidifying as many alliances as possible.
