My mind occupied, I barely hear the feather-light whisper of the girl as it drifts past my ear.
“Are you all right?”
Though she is only a few inches smaller than me, she seems tiny somehow, her stick-thin body swimming in her dress, her face pinched and frightened, like that of a starved mouse. A morbid part of me wants to ask her how she lost her eye.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Don’t think I got on her good side though.”
“She doesn’t have a good side.”
That’s clear enough. “What’s your name?”
“I-I don’t have a name,” the girl says. “None of us do.”
Her hand strays to her eyepatch, and I suddenly feel sick. Is that what happened to this girl? She told someone her name and she had her eye gouged out?
“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.