The Uprising (GRIT Sector 1 Book 2)

by Rebecca Sherwin

  Did I belong anywhere?

  “Are you lost, miss?”

  An elderly woman with a waxed oak walking stick stopped next to me and placed her hand on my wrist. When I looked down at her slight frame, drawn in by her pale blue eyes, I smiled. She didn’t hate me. She wasn’t going to do anything to hurt me…not yet, and not herself. I looked around, searching for burly men or angry-looking brutes who would do the punishing. There were no men. There were boys, but no men.

  “I think so.” I nodded. “Please, where am I?”

  The woman raised an eyebrow and fear drained her face of colour.

  “You’re in Blackwoodbury.”

  “Have I broken free of the estate?”

  It can't have been that easy.

  She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and gestured to the others behind me. When I turned around, they had dropped to one knee with their heads bowed. The children looked on in wonderment, transfixed on my dark combat trousers and pink hoodie. I didn’t understand what was going on.

  “Stop that,” I said, as the woman used the stick to get to her knee, the sun catching her silver hair, making it sparkle like diamonds. “Please, get up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  When she had stood, the others joined her and the activity of the morning market gradually returned with the sound of clattering pots and linens flapping in the morning breeze.

  “Where am I?”

  The woman said nothing. She tipped her head, gesturing for me to follow her and I did, to the first house in the inner circle. She pushed the little wooden door open and hobbled inside, leaving me to follow her and close the door behind us. She set a pot of water on the open fire and dusted off an old rocking chair, patting the seat to tell me to sit down. I did, but I reached out to take her hand when she began putting together a tea set on a tray.

  “Please, let me.”

  “Absolutely not, ma’am. You are my guest.” She paused, looking down at where my hand touched her. I wasn’t allowed. I pulled my hand away quickly and looked into her eyes for her reaction, narrowing when I saw mystery staring back at me. “I’m honoured to have you in my house.”

  “You know me?”

  “You are Master Blackwood’s wife, ma’am.”

  How did she know that? If I’d broken out of the estate, there would be no need for Elias’ importance. He would hold no significant here, unless…

  “I’m still on Blackwood Estate.”

  “You were expecting something else?”

  I knew she knew the answer. Was that why she looked so afraid? Because she knew I was trying to escape and she feared she’d be punished as an accomplice? Because she knew her answer would disappoint the wife of the man whose estate she lived on? Why were these people even here and why had I had no clue there was a fucking village hidden in the grounds?

  “I was,” I said. “I was trying to map out the estate, since it’s my home now. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I think Master Blackwood should give you the tour himself.” She narrowed her eyes at me, suspicion clouding her features. “You’ve been here a while, ma’am.”

  She looked at me like she recognised me. Had I seen her before? Had she served us dinner? Brought me tea or fresh bed linen? Why did she looked at me like an alien, but one she was acquainted with?

  This place was insane. A mystery. Suspense hung in the air, anticipation clung to my skin and something foreign rippled along my spine to make my skin prickle with…what? Curiosity? I wasn’t afraid, I knew that much. I wasn’t uncomfortable, either. I’d been living in luxury for months and this beat that. I’d also lived in a dungeon for several weeks and this village, in this tiny hut with water boiling in a small cauldron, trumped my six by six cell tenfold.

  It wasn't just the old lady who felt familiarity. I did, too. I felt like I'd been here before. The scent of baking bread, growing vegetables and crops, and the fragrance of some species of flower, gave me a strange feeling of nostalgia. I felt homesick, but this felt like a homecoming. Perhaps this was what I'd been searching for, a hint of normality in a world that felt so alien with its ancient traditions and outdated expectations. But this place wasn't modern. The estate had all the furnishings and accents of the twenty-first century, but his village felt a hundred years older than the historical stories I'd listened to over the past few months.

  "Why is this village here?" I asked, accepting a cup of tea in a hand-crafted China cup.

  "We live here," the lady said, as if that answer should be enough.

  It wasn't.

  "But why?" I pressed. I needed to know more. This didn't feel right, and yet it did...

  "We work on the estate, ma'am. We are employed by the Blackwood's."

  "Maids?"

  The lady nodded. "Maids, cooks, cleaners, housekeepers, gardeners."

  Of course they'd have them here. With the number of staff who kept to keep the estate running, they wouldn't be able to come and go freely. It was too risky. It posed too much danger.

  "But why are you hidden?"

  "Because you didn't know we were here, you assume we're hiding?"

  I had. I also assumed the woman was keeping back more than she was telling. I didn't believe anyone; my ability to trust had been severed by the people who had taken me in.

  "You're tucked away behind a forest."

  "We have a normal life. We are a community. There's nothing shameful in that."

  "I didn't mean..."

  "Sugar?" she asked, cutting me short and extending a pot of cubes towards me.

  I was supposed to drink the tea. I'd assumed she'd just made it out of habit; that it was one of those beverages I'd thank her for and leave untouched on the mantelpiece above the crackling fire when I went home. Home. This was home. Or part of it.

  "Thank you," I said, popping one into my cup and stirring with the spoon on my saucer.

  That hadn't been made here. Neither had the sugar. They did have a link to the world outside the walls and I could use them as my way out. The old lady narrowed her eyes as if she read my thoughts.

  "Delivery trucks bring supplies to the house and they're delivered here. We don't leave."

  She did know what I was thinking. She knew my intentions and she was cutting them off before I'd formed avenues and pathways that would lead me to freedom.

  "Does Elias visit?"

  "Master Blackwood trusts we take care of the village. He isn't a dictator. We are left to live and work according to the traditions of the household."

  She was as loco as the rest of them, with her historical beliefs and ancient cryptic-ness. Was that even a word? Who knew? Maybe it had been back in the 1300s, where the craft had clearly been perfected. I took a sip of my tea.

  "Why did you invite me in? You could have just asked me to leave. I didn't mean to intrude on your home."

  Perhaps she was the one stalling now. I hadn't seen an electricity supply, but that didn't mean they didn't have phones or radios to report back to Blackwood House that the prisoner was trying to break out. Prisoner.

  "It's custom, ma'am. You found our village and we welcome you."

  "I'd like to have a look around," I said. "I'd like to spend the morning here with you. Will you show me how you live?"

  "I'm not sure Master Blackwood-"

  "Elias isn't here, and I am his wife. I'd like to see the village, please."

  I didn't want to use the stamp of authority I'd been given and permitted to use against my employees, but I would. This place had my curiosity piqued and I wanted to know why. I wanted to know what secrets it held.

  "As you wish."

  The lady got to her feet and placed her teacup back on the tray. She took mine from me with gentle hands and set it next to hers.

  "Wait," I said, watching her freeze at my unintentionally clipped tone. "What's your name?"

  "Beatrice, ma'am."

  "Nice to meet you, Beatrice." I extended my hand towards her. "I'm-"

  "Lad
y Blackwood, I know."

  I clamped my lips together. Lady Blackwood. There was no way of forgetting I was betrothed to the master of this estate. There was no escaping the expectation, respect and authority carrying his name, being his wife, gifted me with. Shackled me with. I just wanted to be Trixie—just Trixie—but she was no longer here. She was lost somewhere in the city drawing pictures of the bloodshed she imagined, with no idea her married form was swimming in it. Drowning in it. Creating it. Commanding it. Existing in the very chemicals that made it and gave us life—and stole it.

  "Very well. That's a lot to say though, so call me B."

  "Ma'am is just fine. One syllable, easy to remember. You deserve to be a madam. You've earned your title."

  With that she picked up her stick, tapped it into the ground to make sure it was stable, and shuffled from the little hut-house she lived in. Alone. There was no room for another in her one-room home.

  She led me slowly along the centre of the market. Silence and shocked stares greeted me. The villagers didn't know what to make of the stranger; they didn't know how to act, what to say, how to stand. I could see their posture engage in a subconscious battle. They wanted to bow or kneel before me, but they also wanted to run. Holding the Blackwood name came with fear I didn't want to create.

  "Hi," I said to the young girl—about twelve or thirteen—behind a stall offering fresh bread rolls. "May I have some bread, please?"

  I was starving. My stomach was rumbling and rolling over itself as the smells of the market invaded my senses. I hadn't eaten since...before I'd stolen a man's right to ever eat again. I was going to change my mind, but before I could, the girl wrapped a roll in a white napkin and held it out to me.

  "It would be an honour," she said with a curtsey.

  I hated this. It didn't feel right.

  "Thank you." I took the bread from her and broke it into three pieces. "Would you join me?"

  I held a piece out for her and when she accepted, I handed the third piece to Beatrice. She eyed me with suspicion.

  "Am I not supposed to share?"

  "Generally not, when inspecting the stock."

  "I'm not inspecting. I'm just hungry."

  "In that case," she said with a soft smile. "Thank you."

  "Thank you," the girl followed.

  "What's your name?" I asked the girl.

  She looked at Beatrice before answering. "Claire, ma'am."

  "Why aren't you in school, Claire?"

  "The children have a community teacher," Beatrice answered on her behalf. "They learn literacy and arithmetic, but their education focuses on physical skill."

  "Physical?"

  "Cooking and sewing," Claire said, with pride sparkling in her eyes. "We're encouraged to use life skills instead of wasting time reading textbooks."

  Wasting time? A rich education was a waste of time? Yet another belief I didn't share with these people. This population within a population.

  "Interesting."

  God, did I just say that?

  I had. Just like Elias liked to cut conversations with that one word, in a tone that hinted he thought it was anything but interesting, I'd used it to save an argument.

  "Would you like to move on?"

  I nodded.

  Beatrice introduced me to the villagers one by one. Some curtseyed, others nodded their head in respectful greeting. Some smiled and talked, happy to welcome me; others stood motionless and silent, just waiting for me to pass.

  "What happens after the market?" I asked Beatrice when we reached the end of the stalls.

  "We clear up and get to work. The morning maids return from the House and the afternoon staff take their place. We cook, we bake, we tend to our crops, we play with our children and we engage in hobbies."

  "Hobbies?"

  "Knitting, sewing, crafting, pottery...whatever we like to do in our spare time."

  "Do you have painters?" I asked.

  She shook her head.

  "Do you have paper? And pencils?"

  "The schoolhouse has some." She pointed to a shack just off the track. I hadn't counted it in my house-count. Beatrice stumbled on old weary legs and I reached out to support her. She tried to push me off, but I stood strong. Eventually she thanked me with a tight smile and I helped her up the gentle hill, along the buttercup-lined path to the schoolhouse with pictures hanging on a line of rope along the length of the hut.

  We stepped inside and I looked at the old chalkboard, stained white with overuse. There were plastic pots lined up on one windowsill, pottery equipment on another, and a drying rack of colourful paintings made by the children of the village in one corner.

  "Do you mind?" I asked, impatient with Beatrice's slow pace.

  "Go ahead. I'll get some air outside, the pigments in the paint aggravate my lungs."

  She didn't move when she'd said it. She was waiting for me to permit her exit.

  "It's your village, Beatrice. Please, just treat me like any other. Of course you can leave. I'd like some time alone."

  I wanted to draw the village. I hoped that by exploring the inspiration it gave me, I'd formulate some answers for my curiosity. Beatrice had been welcoming; she'd answered my questions and explained that the village stood as it did, to preserve and revive what the city had lost. It was a place unafraid and confident when night fell. It was somewhere children could have a childhood, husband and wife—although I still hadn't seen any men—could sleep in the same bed, and kiss their children goodnight knowing they were safe.

  Beyond the evil that encompassed GRIT, Blackwood Estate had granted forty-two families freedom they wouldn't have found elsewhere. They gave them hope when their mother city was falling around these walls, inside the barricades. It was a piece of paradise in hell. Grabbing sheets of thin paper and simple lead pencils from a pot on the teacher's desk, I stepped outside and sat on the steps of the schoolhouse. I cast my eyes down at the blank page on my lap and allowed my fingers to sketch. I watched the village morph from morning to afternoon and drew pictures of the happiness I'd imagined but had never had the inspiration to channel.

  "Lady Blackwood?"

  I looked up to see a blonde-haired cherub in front of me, with a plate of food. Cheese and grapes and soft white bread.

  "Hi there." I smiled.

  The little girl was petite, appearing far younger than her attitude and grace made her seem. I couldn't figure out how old she was, but she couldn't have been older than seven.

  "I brought you some lunch. My mother makes the cheese. She thought you might like some."

  "Thank you."

  I'd met her mother at her stall earlier and sampled her cheese. I'd liked it; I was glad she'd noticed and sent me some. I hadn't noticed my hunger build as I drew in the early afternoon sunshine.

  "Would you like some water? Or we have some elderflower juice."

  "That would be lovely. Thank you..."

  "Sarah." She smiled. "My name is Sarah."

  Her grin, minus two front teeth, made me giggle and she blushed, trying to maintain her composure when there was a bright young energy just below the surface.

  "Stay there, Sarah," I said. "Do you mind if I draw you?"

  She shook her head, the tight waves in her hair bouncing against her rosy cheeks.

  "Okay, stay still. Just for a minute."

  Her eyes darted around her awkwardly, but she didn't move. She didn't know how to stand, how to pose, where to place her hands. It didn't matter. I mapped out her features quickly, and etched her smile from memory.

  "Almost done. Do you want to get me the juice, please? I'll have the picture done when you get back."

  She was too quick. She returned with a glass of iced juice and placed it next to me. I smiled and thanked her, sucking in a breath when her bright immaturity gave her the confidence to climb the steps and sit next to me. I was glad she had. I wasn't a monster.

  Yes, you are.

  She slid to my side and tried to see the picture.

>   "Nuh uh," I said with a smile. "Close your eyes. I'm almost done."

  Her eyes fluttered closed, thick eyelashes fanned her cheeks and she chewed her bottom lip to contain her excitement. I wished she'd done that before I'd drawn her smile. It was a shy tell—proof that she was indeed a child, despite her obvious early maturity.

  I could come back.

  "All done," I said, placing the picture on her lap and brushing my hands on my trousers. "Open your eyes, sweet girl."

  She did, gasping when she looked at the picture in tiny soft hands.

  "Is this me?" she asked.

  "It is." I nodded and traced the line of her already sculptured cheeks with my finger. "You've never seen your reflection?"

  "In the lake." She shrugged. "She's pretty."

  "You are." She tried to hand it back to me, but I shook my head. "Keep it, it's yours. Where's Beatrice?"

  "She likes to sit in the sun. She'll be outside her house."

  House. They didn't call their homes huts or shacks like I did. Why did I feel like that mattered?

  "Thank you." I stood up and picked up my glass. "And thank you for the juice." I took a sip, my taste buds coming to life as the juice burst over my tongue. "This is amazing."

  "I'll make sure you get some at the house."

  "You're a star, sweet girl. Thank you."

  "Thank you for the drawing, Trixie."

  Trixie. She called me Trixie. My step faltered as I skipped down the steps. I wanted to ask her how she knew my name, but I didn't. I couldn't explain why.

  She needed to quit with the sulking. Last night hadn't gone to plan...and yet it had. Perfectly. Our life could begin with her task completed. She'd proven herself. She'd shown me she could do this and yet, I was consumed by grief when I woke up and my bed was empty. I should have gone to her last night. I should have wiped away her tears and made love to my wife. It was my right as her husband. It was her gift to me as my soulmate.