Chapter 2
Every Friday since I was twelve, I’ve done laundry for the entire household.
For the first part of my life, all household chores had to be done by hand.
When the asteroid hit Europe in the event we now call the Fall, the entire planet was thrown into chaos and all order and infrastructure everywhere collapsed.
Life in this region was as rustic and uncivilized as the rest of the world until President Patterson took control, stabilizing and securing first the Capitol, then all the towns and villages surrounding it, and then all the nearby larger cities.
He formed the Central Cities and created the only safe place in the world.
But life was difficult. My childhood years were defined primarily by hard work.
I only had a couple of years of school before my mother pulled me out to handle most of the domestic chores, including laundry, so she could work with the village seamstress to earn us more credits.
I wouldn’t even know how to read and write if Father hadn’t taught me himself.
A few years ago, when the technological conveniences from the newly developed solar battery finally trickled out to the villages closest to the Capitol, my domestic work should have become much easier.
We got an efficient laundry machine that washes and dries our clothes, in addition to an oven, dishwasher, refrigerator, and vacuum cleaner.
But Lorraine still insists that her and Aria’s dresses need to be hand-washed. They’re too valuable to risk damaging in a machine.
So Friday laundry remains an all-day affair.
I begin early the next morning, collecting the week’s clothing from where it’s scattered all over their rooms.
There’s a ridiculous amount. They each wear at least two outfits a day, plus extra they try on and discard as they dress in the mornings without hanging the clothes back up. I try not to stew in resentment as I add their huge piles to my small one.
I gave up on indulging resentment a long time ago—in the same way I gave up on anger and hope.
Eventually you get too tired for such things. It’s easier to simply accept the days as they come.
Since today isn’t a market day, Lorraine and Aria sleep in late and then go to the village café for a long lunch. I’m just as happy for them to be out of the house. Otherwise, one or the other might take it on herself to supervise my work.
It’s late afternoon before I finish, and they still haven’t returned. Sometimes they pay visits to other women in town. That’s probably what they’re doing today.
I have a small cot in my “room,” which is in reality nothing more than an empty corner of the kitchen near the old, unused woodstove. No matter how much I clean it, the soot has never fully gone away. I occasionally still find a trace of the ashes on my clothes.
When Annabelle moved out, Lorraine declared that we could all now have our own rooms. Which meant she kept my parents’ room, Aria took my and Annabelle’s room, and I got this.
I was so relieved to be able to sleep away from Aria that I didn’t even complain.
I’m sitting on my cot with my back to the wall when Lorraine and Aria return. I can hear their excited chatter even before they burst into the kitchen in a flurry of hair and fabric and noise.
“What are you doing, girl?” Lorraine says, frowning when she sees me. “Surely you don’t have so little to do that you lounge in the middle of the day?”
“I’m mending,” I tell her, lifting my favorite blue dress, although it was quite clearly in her eyeline before. “I just finished all the laundry.”
“Good. Then get up and get busy. Rest time is over. We have a guest coming for dinner.”
“Okay.” I tie off my thread before I set down the dress and get up. I wonder which of their obnoxious friends will be making my evening worse. “How many?”
“Just one. Aria’s man will be joining us, so you need to be on your best behavior and make sure dinner is perfect.”
“Okay,” I say again, surprised but not disappointed.
Mason has never come over to the house before. Maybe they’re actually moving forward on the engagement.
At least he’s never been rude or grabby with me.
Since dinner needs to be fancy, I go out to make a round through the village center, using the last of our week’s grocery credits on steak, potatoes, and asparagus—and then on a whim grab a small slice of blue cheese.
I’m whipping the potatoes with the butter and cheese when Mason arrives. I can’t see him since the kitchen door is closed, but I can hear the shrill sound of their excitement at his entrance.
He seems like a decent sort, but I simply can’t respect a man who chooses to put up with all that for no other reason than to nab a pretty wife.
The voices continue excitedly for several minutes—Lorraine’s and Aria’s, that is. It doesn’t sound like Mason has even said a word yet.
I’m grilling the steaks when Lorraine’s voice is suddenly louder and clearer. “There’s no reason to go in there,” she’s saying. “It’s probably a mess because that girl can’t keep a room even moderately clean.”
I whirl around in surprise to see Mason standing in the doorway of the kitchen, eyeing me soberly. His gaze runs up and down my body quickly before returning to my face.
“Hi,” I say, confused and rattled by his appearance.
He doesn’t answer. His eyes take a tour around the kitchen—all village standard—until they linger on my cot and neatly folded clothes in the sooty corner by the old woodstove.
Then his eyes shoot back to my face.
For no good reason, it embarrasses me. I flush and glance down at the neatly sliced bread on the counter. “Dinner will be ready soon.”
He still doesn’t answer. He also doesn’t move.
“Now you’ve had a tour of the house,” Lorraine says, dragging him away from the kitchen. “Come and chat with Aria. I’m sure you want to get to know her better.”
The kitchen door falls closed without his body to block it.
I shake my head and turn back to the steaks.
What an odd man.
Maybe he and Aria will be a good match after all.
Dinner turns out perfectly, but that doesn’t stop Lorraine from complaining about the doneness of her steak or Aria from whining about lumps in the potatoes.
Mason cleans his plate and then finishes seconds when I give him more.
I’m not allowed to eat with them, of course. I was never told I wasn’t welcome at the dining table, but after Annabelle left, I simply stopped. I have to do all the work in preparing and cooking. I have to serve the food and top off drinks. I have to clear and wash the dishes afterward.
I don’t have time to eat with them even if I wanted to.
I make myself a small steak and eat it with the potatoes and asparagus, standing at the kitchen counter in the small pockets of time between summons to the dining room.
Their conversation is actually rather amusing.
I don’t think Mason has said more than ten words since he stepped into the house, but there’s never more than a moment of silence.
He’s given exactly one second to respond to any new topic or question, and when he doesn’t, either Lorraine or Aria will fill the gap with more endless chatter about nonsense.
Most of it is focused on Aria’s accomplishments, her large circle of friends in the village, her perfect health, and her fashion choices.
Every time I come out from the kitchen, I check his expression to see how it’s changed.
The first couple of times his face shows nothing but his typical stoic blankness.
The next time he looks like he’s getting a headache.
The time after that, he’s trying to hide a yawn.
Then it’s definitely impatience.
And finally it’s a dryly amused astonishment that makes me want to giggle.
I don’t, of course. I keep my head down as I top off the glasses and remove empty plates.
“There are crumbs all over the table, Teresa.” Aria’s tone is the pseudopolite one she always uses when she’s criticizing but pretending to be nice. “Would you please clean them up before dessert?”
“Of course.” I grab a cloth and come around to Aria’s side of the table.
“Do try not to spill out all over our guest,” Lorraine says.
I freeze, confused not by the annoying supervision but by the complaint. I’m not touching Mason in any way. My hair is, as usual, slipping out of my braid, and my old gray dress has a long skirt and loose sleeves, but neither one is touching anyone but me.
Then I follow the direction of Lorraine’s glare and glance down at my chest.
The neckline is perfectly modest—a shallow scoop rather than the low square neck of new dresses—but the dress is too big for me.
Leaning over like this, the loose neckline is gaping and probably showing too much of my breasts.
When I glance over, Mason isn’t even looking in my direction, so I’m not sure why she even bothered to point it out.
I’m curvier than Annabelle and Aria, but that’s never been an asset or a point of pride, since the fashion of the Capitol prefers tall, slim bodies.
Definitely not me.
I do a few more awkward swipes without leaning over enough to expose any cleavage and then hurry back into the kitchen.
All that’s left is dessert. Then I can wash dishes, clean up, and be done for the night.
Dessert is honey cake with whipped cream. I plate it up prettily and carry them out to the dining room.
“This looks real good,” Mason says when I set his plate in front of him.
I jerk in surprise at hearing him speak at all. “Thank you,” I murmur, ridiculously pleased by the unexpected compliment.
It feels like his eyes are on me as I set down Aria’s plate, but I’m too self-conscious to check.
I know better than to not pay attention to my actions. Lorraine might be mean and bossy and entitled, but Aria is often petty.
And I learned a long time ago that, if even for a few seconds the attention of the room flickers over to me, Aria will retaliate.
I should have expected it and prepared, but I got distracted by the mildest of compliments. So when Aria tips her full glass of apple water, the liquid sloshes all over me.