Chapter 6
VI
When I get dressed the next day, sweat-soaked wool clings to my sticky skin like a leech, and the wash basin is unable to give me much relief.
To explain my determination to bathe myself feels a little bit silly because, at this point, I’m so desperate for it, I would be happy to do so in a forest stream.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t come across a stream on my way here, and the chances of finding something suitable inside the castle seems much likelier.
My body seems to have made up its mind without me because I find myself following the stairs to the kitchen.
As usual, it’s empty, dark, and clammy. Still, I look in every closet, hoping to find a somewhat suitable basin.
I locate a cupboard full of preserves so ancient they must have been bottled during the Napoleonic Wars, but nothing I could use to bathe myself.
I try to think where else in these labyrinthine halls I could find something that serves my purpose. A vague image of a door opposite the root cellar comes to mind.
I head down there, hoping to find something other than dried-up potatoes. Descending the stairs, my mind, still as confused as before, slips to my last encounter with Aba?. He had been kind, almost caring, right? But then, just that same morning—
My thoughts come to a halt as I reach for my Walkman and find my pocket empty.
I must have left it in my room. I want to put on music to silence the conflicting emotions fighting it out in my mind, but without it, I see the library—vividly: the heat of the fire, the dark forest just outside the window.
I clearly hear Aba?’ words: becoming one with the forest.
I’m sure his tone was friendly, almost confiding. But then, from the first moment I arrived, most other interactions were hostile, dismissive, and almost cruel.
It can’t just be me, right? I’m not saying I’m afraid, but I’m pretty sure the other staff members are at least a little scared.
Well, Pepper looked pretty frightened. I haven’t fully figured out of whom exactly, but I have some suspicions.
And Bayard. Well, Bayard, as stiff as he is, exhibits the unusual mixture of fear, pride, and devotion.
Not that Aba? treats him any kinder, either.
The distinct scent of long-forgotten things pulls me back to the cellar steps. Their complete darkness reminds me to fetch the candle left in the kitchen.
I want to focus on looking for the basin, but my brain keeps taking me to Aba?.
Something in me wants—no, needs—to know an explanation for his peculiar behaviour.
The only thing that makes sense for his cruelty is a certain level of hatred.
But if this was the case, why had he been almost caring just yesterday night, standing there, a towel in hand?
The way he looked at me when I was standing naked before him. Hungry and wanting. Had it just been a cruel game to him, to lead me on just to scream in my face?
Before I let myself spiral down this path, I remember the way he ordered me out of his room, like a punishment. It stung worse than denying me food for a day.
“Fuck that guy,” I mumble as I open the small door across the root cellar.
With the lit candle held high, I peer inside, and just as I hoped, it’s filled with all sorts of discarded furniture.
There’s a strange smell in this room that I can’t fully place but choose to ignore.
After all, I’m on a mission, and not here to question strange smells.
I don’t pay attention to the thick layer of dust covering everything like a fungus, just dig around until I finally find what I’ve been looking for: a basin large enough to crouch in.
Unable to carry the lit candle and the tub at the same time, I lug it into the kitchen in near darkness.
I leave it next to the cooker and start boiling several pots of water.
While I wait for it to heat up, I glare at the pile of seeds that are sitting on the table.
Those little nightmares are still taunting me to peel them.
When the water is steaming and the basin is finally filled, I realise I forgot to bring my soap and towel from my room.
Determined to bathe right away, I grab the bar from the kitchen sink and several dish towels, tossing them next to the tub.
I peel off my clothes, letting my hair down and undoing the braid.
I slip into the scalding hot water in one quick movement, not letting my skin get used to the change of temperature. It’s painful but feels glorious, and I linger in it even though I’m only half submerged. For once, my small frame serves me well.
I sit there dripping water over my chest until it cools down. The tub is so small, it gets tricky to wash my hair, but I manage well enough. When I’m done, I lather a towel in soap and scrub my skin until it turns red.
Just as I’m rinsing soap off my face, I hear footsteps entering the kitchen.
“Like an animal,” Aba?’ rich voice drips in.
“You’re the one who denies your staff basic hygiene.” I glare back.
“So you think you deserve a hot bath like a queen?” he asks.
“I can’t see you washing yourself at a basin like a fucking peasant,” I retort.
“Wouldn’t you like to know? See me bathe my bare flesh? Lather my cock in soap?” he says, his voice too soft for those words.
“What?” I blurt out, blood rushing to my head.
“You sure like that word.” He flashes a teasing grin.
It’s meant as an insult but I can’t help but respond to the way his thick lips stretch across his face.
Fuck, now he has me thinking about him like…
like that again. I want to say something clever, maybe even insulting, but my brain is too muddled to come up with anything good.
He slowly looks me up and down, lingering on each limb for an unnervingly long time.
“Finish your work. When it is done, come to me in my chamber,” he commands.
And with those words and a lingering look, he leaves the kitchen.
I’m left alone, crouching in my pathetic little basin. It felt so luxurious just moments ago until Aba? barged in and made me feel like a miserable wretch begging for scraps.
I step out of the water, shivering as soon as my feet hit the icy tiled floor.
I try to dry my body off with the kitchen towels, and my pitiful attempts leave me damp and even colder than before.
In this state, the roughness of my uniform feels like torture.
Like this, it doesn’t even serve its most important function.
Shivering, I braid my hair with stiff fingers and tuck it under my cap.
I feel the strange urge to make myself tea to warm up but find nothing in the cupboards besides the dense rock of bread and some chipped dishes.
Resigned but determined, I drink a cup of hot water and choke down a piece of bread.
I glance around the table, half-expecting to see one of Bayard’s obnoxious little notes, but there’s nothing but the horrid seeds.
I realise then that I haven’t seen Bayard since he grabbed me by the wrist. I didn’t receive any instructions either, not in my room nor on this table.
I assume I should continue peeling the seeds, but without direct instructions, I feel the familiar glimmer of spite growing inside me.
I let my head drop to the rough surface of the wood, closing my eyes and resting for a moment.
Just as before. Nothing. Only the silent draft clawing at my bare ankles, making me shiver.
Then, suddenly, I feel a strange urge pulling me outside to the grounds.
I continue until I find the spot where I dug the ditches the other day.
My tools are still stacked in the same spot on the floor, but the holes have been completely filled in.
My sore muscles are the only evidence of them ever having been there.
A strange feeling comes over me—not fear, exactly, but a sort of foreboding.
The kind of feeling that makes me want to do reckless things.
I stand there, wondering if I should dig them back up. Just…for curiosity’s sake. But my muscles shout at me to do it another day. I hesitate for just a second, then choose to listen to them. For now.
But I make sure to memorise the exact spot. Just in case.