Chapter Five – Tressa
Chapter Five
Tressa
I hear the door close behind Altair, and my legs give out. I collapse on the floor, clutching my mother’s old uniform to my chest, and finally let myself cry. My shoulders shake as the sobs tear through me, but I keep them quiet, pressing my face into the faded fabric. I don’t want him to hear me.
The uniform doesn’t smell like her anymore. It just smells like old fabric and storage, like dust and time. That makes me cry harder.
I remember following her around the palace kitchen when I was five or six years old. She’d peel and chop vegetables, and I’d trail behind her asking question after question. She never got annoyed with me, and never told me to be quiet or go away.
Even though I was only six, she taught me how to help. How to peel potatoes without cutting myself, how to wash vegetables properly, and how to sweep floors and dust furniture when we cleaned rooms together. I learned everything from her while Brandon was out and about with Altair.
Brandon, who was four years older than me, had been chosen from among the servants’ sons to be Altair’s studying and training partner.
When I was little, I thought that was such an honor.
I believed our family was blessed and better than the other human families working at the palace.
Brandon got to eat better food, wear nicer clothes, and spend time with the young lord himself.
But after the tragedy, and after we were expelled, I understood the truth.
Brandon hadn’t been chosen to be Altair’s friend. He’d been chosen to be the whipping boy.
Brandon would learn with Altair, do homework together, train to fight with swords and ride horses.
When Altair did something wrong, acted out, or didn’t do his homework, Brandon was punished instead.
No tutor, and not even Altair’s father could hit the young heir, so the only way to punish Altair and make him behave was to hit his friend.
The punishments Brandon endured were what kept ten-year-old Altair in line, because Altair tended to be a naughty child, always testing boundaries and breaking rules.
I remember Brandon coming back to our quarters with welts on his back and bruises on his arms. My mother would tend to him quietly, applying salve and wrapping bandages, never complaining.
I hate that I ever thought it was an honor.
A knock on the door startles me out of my memories. I barely have time to scramble to my feet and wipe my face before a middle-aged woman enters the bedroom without waiting for permission. She studies me from head to toe with a critical eye. I notice she’s human.
“I’m Greta. Lord Aurellion tasked me with showing you what your work is. Get dressed quickly. There are things you need to do.”
Her tone is brisk and businesslike, with an edge of resentment. She doesn’t ask if I’m all right, nor does she acknowledge my red eyes and tear-stained face.
I take the old uniform into the bathroom and close the door.
I stare at it, and it breaks my heart to put it on.
But I force myself to do it, telling myself that this way, my mother is close to me.
Her spirit will watch over me and protect me.
The uniform fits well enough, though it’s looser than it was on her.
I look at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the girl staring back. I look like a ghost from another time.
I take a deep breath and tell myself I can do this. I don’t know what I got myself into, but I can’t back down now. If Altair wants me to work, then I can work. I’ve done worse to survive. He won’t break me.
I walk out of the bathroom, and Greta looks me over with a frown.
She turns and leads me out of the room. We go down the grand staircase, through corridors I remember from childhood, and through the kitchen, where other servants pause to stare at me.
We walk out the back door into an inner courtyard paved with stone and surrounded by high walls.
There’s a large basin set up, with buckets of water beside it. A pile of fine clothing sits waiting.
“You’re to wash the lord’s clothes by hand,” Greta says.
“By hand? That’s ridiculous. Wyverns have magic and advanced technology. Surely, a washing machine can be used for this.”
Greta’s expression doesn’t change.
“The lord’s clothes must always be washed by hand. That’s his preference, and now that’s your job.”
I start to argue, but she cuts me off.
“I have other work to do.”
She turns on her heel and leaves me standing there alone.
I stare at the pile of clothing and can’t believe the stupidity of the task.
Only poor people who can’t afford a washing machine do this.
Even my family had an old washing machine that died a few years ago, and after that, yes, I had to wash my father’s clothes and mine by hand.
But this is different. This is Altair being deliberately cruel.
If that’s what he wants, I’ll do it. I fill the basin with water, add soap, and start scrubbing his shirts and trousers.
The work is hard and my arms ache. After an hour, my hands are red from the detergent, my skin pruned and sensitive, and my fingertips sore.
Sweat drips down my back despite the cool spring air.
Then my cuff starts burning. At first, it’s just warm and uncomfortable, then it gets hotter and hotter, until I can’t ignore it. It feels like my wrist is on fire. I dry my hands on my uniform, wincing at how raw they feel, and go back inside to find him.
I head toward the grand staircase, assuming he’d be in his chambers.
But the cuff burns unbearably hot. I stumble back, confused and in pain.
I try a different direction, and the cuff cools slightly.
I realize the cuff is guiding me. When I go the wrong way, it burns.
When I go the right way, it gets colder.
I curse under my breath and call him all the bad names under the sun. The cuff guides me down a corridor, through a sitting room and into another hallway. I finally arrive in a grand dining room where the table is set for only one person at the head.
Altair sits there waiting, his golden wings spread behind him, his tail curled around the chair leg. His fingers drum impatiently on the edge of the table.
“There you are. What took you so long? I’m starving, and there’s no one to serve me my food.”
I’m rubbing my wrist, hissing in pain from the cuff. I’m also annoyed with him for summoning me like a dog.
“That’s not my job. There are plenty of people who can serve you your food.”
His eyes narrow.
“Your job is what I say it is. Now, go bring what the cook has prepared.”
I sigh and roll my eyes, but I do as he says. The sooner I do it, the sooner I can get away from him.
I go back to the kitchen, where the cook and servants stare at me.
I load a tray with covered dishes and make several trips back and forth.
I set a delicate soup in a silver bowl before him, garnished with herbs and cream.
Then roasted quail with crispy skin, arranged on a bed of wild rice.
Grilled vegetables drizzled with butter and garlic.
Fresh bread still warm from the oven, soft cheese, and honeyed figs.
I bring a bottle of fine red wine, the label showing it’s from a prestigious vineyard.
I set each dish before him carefully. He doesn’t thank me, nor does he acknowledge me.
As Altair starts filling his plate, I turn to leave. He stops me.
“You will stand here while I eat, in case I need anything. For instance, you may pour the wine.”
I want to strangle him. I realize that I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday, and my stomach is empty and cramping. I stand there watching him eat, and it’s torture.
I take the bottle of wine and uncork it. I fill a glass, the dark red liquid catching the light. I lift the glass to pass it to him, but then I pretend to drop it. Wine spills all over his lap, soaking his expensive trousers.
Altair jumps from the table, glaring at me. Wine drips down his legs onto the floor.
I look at him defiantly, not even trying to hide my satisfaction.
“I’m so sorry, Lord Aurellion. I did tell you I’m not the right person for this job.”
I expect him to explode, but instead, Altair grins at me. It’s a dangerous grin, and it sends a shiver through my body. He sits back down in his wine-soaked trousers and motions to a napkin on the table.
“Use that to clean the mess you’ve made.”
My blood boils with anger. I will not clean him up. I won’t touch him, and I’m ready to suffer the consequences.
“No.”
Altair growls at me, a sound that’s not quite human.
As he does it, his face morphs. His features sharpen and become more reptilian, and his eyes flash with dragon slits.
My heart gallops in my chest, fear spiking through me, but I doubt he will actually hurt me.
He paid too much for me to damage his property. I still refuse to move.
His tail suddenly snaps out and wraps around my legs like a living rope. He pulls hard and fast, and I fall to my knees, hitting the floor hard. I wince in pain, my kneecaps bruising.
“Bastard,” I mutter.
Altair is completely unfazed by my cursing. He throws the napkin at me, and it lands in my lap. His face has returned to normal, but his voice is cold and commanding.
“Clean the mess you’ve made. Like this, on your knees.”
His hands have turned to claws, sharp talons instead of fingers, gleaming and dangerous. If he dared to knock me down with his tail, he’ll do other things too. I shouldn’t forget the child he used to be, mean and chaotic, always getting Brandon in trouble until he got Brandon killed.
Feeling utterly humiliated, I pick up the napkin. I shuffle closer to him on my knees and start dabbing at the wine I spilled onto his lap. I grit my teeth, hating every second of it. I try to keep my touch light and impersonal.