9. Chapter 9
Chapter 9
Kat
I breathe hard as I shut the door to the outhouse. The stench is repugnant, but I don’t care. I just need a quiet, dark corner for half a minute to let out a chorus of silent screams. My cheek still stings, but it’s nowhere near as bad as the sting of my pride and frustration.
I need to give up my intention to continue undereating. I can’t do basic things like fend off someone angry at me.
But more than that—bigger than all that—is the gut-filling horror of my new situation.
Prince Rahk. Prince Rahk. Prince Rahk.
Of the cursed Nothril Court.
“Oh dear saints,” I gasp, clutching the sides of my head. “Oh dear saints. I’m going to get myself killed.”
Memory assaults me of what it was like to be cornered by him in his room, fearing that he would take one of his great swords and slice me open. I think of the frightened woman I left behind. A woman who might be dead now, if my mask wasn’t enough to throw the Nothril Court off the scent of the other servants.
Prince Rahk of the Nothril Court.
Of all the fae in Faerieland, he is the single worst person who could have come to Harbright. The single worst person for me to be living in the same house with—even one as grand as this one.
If he knew it was me who stole his ollea , he’d kill me.
If he knew I was freeing human slaves from Faerieland, he’d kill me.
If he knew I was lying to him about my gender, age, social status— everything —he’d kill me.
Brutally. Torturously.
Blast this all.
These servants here have no idea who their master is. They do not know that he is a notorious killer. They have not seen the coldness of his dead gaze—not like what I saw in Faerieland.
And now that I’ve begun this job, I cannot leave. There is no other place for me to work without getting a reference, which I cannot earn within the short time I intend to stay here. Beyond that, there is no other place for me to go. Not without leaving town and crippling my ability to run raids.
I have to do this.
The only way out is through.
“You’ve just got to be clever about this,” I tell myself between panicked gasps for air. “You learned how to survive in the Long Lost Wood. You learned how to stalk fae courts and rescue humans. You can do this.”
I have many things to my advantage, I tell myself, to make up for all the ways I’m egregiously disadvantaged. We’re on human ground. He’s not home. I’m in my homeland. I know the ways of the human world. He doesn’t know who I am. He didn’t pick up my scent at the Nothril Court. I’m good at staying beneath notice when I want to. I’ll work hard. I’ll eat and get back my strength. I won’t give him a single reason to doubt me. I’ll be the best attendant he’s ever had.
“You robbed a fae prince blind and got away with it,” I tell myself. You’ve got this .
Squaring my shoulders, I push open the outhouse door and face what comes next.
Over the quick but satisfying meal that the cook, Mrs. Finch, sets out for me, I learn that the low fae with the horns is named Edvear, and he is the steward. According to Mrs. Banks, I will now answer exclusively to him. She tells me to go report for duty to him. I wander the hallways of the manor looking for him, and I hide my wince when I find him speaking to Prince Rahk in a room that appears to be a study.
I’m not going in there while they are speaking. I will wait here. Awkwardly. In the hallway. And I shall pray that when Edvear leaves the study, the prince does not follow him.
My prayer is answered. Only a few minutes later, Edvear shuts the door to the study behind him and spies me with a pair of startlingly yellow eyes. His pupils are slitted like a cat’s. They dilate upon seeing me.
“I am here to do your bidding,” I say, ducking my head.
He sniffs—disapproval? He strides down the hallway past me, speaking as I launch myself forward to follow him.
“You will oversee setting out his clothes. I will check your work until I am satisfied with your skills in this area. You will serve his tea first thing in the morning. He is used to Faerie brews, so you must learn to prepare them properly. Any meals that he does not wish to take in the dining room, you will serve wherever he wishes. You will attend him on errands and outings. You will draw his baths for him and help him dress as he requires. “
My eyes bug. I can only imagine how brutal my death will be once the prince learns it is not a young boy, but a full-grown woman who helps him bathe.
He will absolutely murder me.
“Your primary job is to ensure he is comfortable and happy in all circumstances,” Edvear concludes.
A Nothril prince—happy? I almost snort at the ridiculousness of the notion.
It’s just at that moment that I realize we’ve been walking these fine hallways, and I’m supposed to be an urchin who has never been inside such a building. I quickly arch my neck and feign gawking at the intricate, gold-painted designs on the ceiling panels. My gawking quickly turns real. These are beautiful ceilings. I cannot remember the last time I specifically looked up and admired a ceiling.
“Deliver any communications he wishes,” Edvear continues. “Most will come through me, but he might send some directly through you. You will keep his chambers clean, his fire filled with wood and stoked as necessary. You must be available to serve him whenever he needs anything. More tasks will be added as needed, and as your competence grows.”
“Where do I begin?” I ask.
“Unpack his clothes in his room and get everything ready for him.”
He shows me to the prince’s bedchamber. It is the largest, most opulent room I’ve encountered in this manor so far.
It’s a dark room, with walls of plastered stone. Thick red curtains with corded gold tassels are drawn over the arched windows. They match the large stretch of woven red rug covering the cold stone floor. The bed, with its ornately carved headboard and footboard, is situated against a recessed arch. A great chandelier of wrought iron holds a host of unlit candles. It’s going to be my job to light those things, isn’t it?
Near the door is a large space occupied with a low table, surrounded by cushions for seating. The far side of the room is fitted with a luxurious vanity, a private bathing chamber with a clawfoot tub, and a mysterious door I don’t explore in front of Edvear.
“There are his things.” Edvear points to two trunks arranged against the wall near the table. “I expect you to be finished readying his room by the end of the day.”
I survey the room. It is tidy, but having been unoccupied for some time, it is not clean enough for someone like Agatha, and this prince is well known for his sensitive nose. Considering that I can even smell the must, this room will be intolerable to him. My life and hope for the future depends on doing a good job—and not getting dismissed. As I note the dust balls in the corner, the dirt gathered in the grout of the stone floor, the stale angle of the curtains, I summon my will.
I’m going to work harder than any of these other servants.
I won’t make the prince regret giving me a second chance.
I throw myself into my work. Returning to the kitchen, I collect a broom, duster, rags, and a bucket of soapy water. The first thing I do is pull back all the curtains, letting sunlight flood the dark room. I open all the windows and let fresh air circulate. The spring air is fragrant and cool. The chirp of birds outside becomes my companion as I endeavor to remove every single speck of dust in this room.
Edvear returns an hour later to find me on my hands and knees, scrubbing relentlessly at the floor.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
“Cleaning the grout,” I say, tucking away the butterknife I was using for precision.
“That is not necessary. Unpacking his trunks is your first priority.”
“I will stop.”
When he’s gone, I continue what I’m doing, sweat beading down my forehead. He might think I am being ridiculous, but Agatha was always fastidious about grout and I’ve heard dozens of lectures from her aimed at the unfortunate staff back home of the vast importance of clean grout.
I’m almost done, anyway.
Before I started on the grout, I cleaned out the wardrobe and opened all of its doors and drawers for the spring air to purify. Now that they are dry, I flip open the prince’s trunks. The first thing that greets me is a bandolier of sharp, gleaming knives. I sweep away my momentary flinch and carefully set the bandolier on the ground. His clothes are beneath it. I set to work organizing them in the wardrobe. They are all distinctly fae make.
He will need proper human clothes if he wants to be accepted into society here.
I will not suggest such a thing. For one, it’s not my place. For another, it is better if we all remember just how deadly and unlike us the fae are.
The sun angles low in the horizon, warm and bright, announcing late afternoon. I’ve still got so much work to do! One of those pressing tasks is chopping enough wood for the prince’s fire. Considering that I’ve never chopped wood a single day in my life, I anticipate sacrificing a few fingers in the effort.
I consult Clifford, the groundskeeper, and he shows me where the wood pile, axe, and stump for chopping are. I heave a hunk of wood onto the stump, flex my fingers on the handle of the axe, and blow a short strand of hair out of my face.
I send the axe flying into the wood. I miss entirely, taking a chip out of the stump instead.
Perhaps I ought not to squeeze my eyes shut while I swing.
I lift the axe again and swing. It lands in the wood—and sticks. I yank hard, but the axe refuses to budge. Don’t panic, I tell myself as pressure rises in my chest. It’ll come out. And if it doesn’t, Clifford was a nice man and probably will only laugh a little if you go tell him you got the axe stuck.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
The deep voice startles me so much I whirl, holding the axe in front of me like a weapon.
Only a few feet away stands the Nothril prince, his legs planted wide and his arms crossed over his chest. He stands like he did when he found me in his room—like a warrior, and I decide that stance is far scarier than any of the armor and weaponry he lacks. His chin is tucked slightly as he frowns down at me.
I brace instinctively.
Then I realize I’m still clutching the axe as though to defend myself. This is not what a servant boy would be doing. I let the head of the axe fall to the grass and bow quickly. “Master.”
“You’ve never chopped wood before,” the prince states.
I wince. I’ve got to salvage this before he dismisses me. “I am a fast learner.”
He only regards me coolly. Something about the way his gaze travels over my face and form makes me feel like he can see through my disguise straight to the girl beneath it all. I try not to squirm uncomfortably beneath his study.
He isn’t going to recognize me. He isn’t going to recognize me. It becomes a chant that I repeat in my mind to avoid being overtaken by the temptation to turn on my heel and run for cover.
Then he steps toward the chopping block. I scurry back several paces, too aware of how close I am to my own death. One of his broad hands lands lightly on the handle of the axe. The muscles of his forearm flex as he rocks it up and down until the head comes loose.
“That is how you get it out.” He lifts the axe and faces me, deliberately placing his hands along the handle. His right hand lands just below the head, his left near the base of the handle. “This is how you hold it. And this is how you chop.”
He turns, and in a swift, singular—and utterly terrifying—motion, he cleanly chops the wood. The two halves hit the ground with dull thumps.
That block of wood will be me if he discovers what I’ve done.
He’s speaking to me. I drag my gaze up from the fallen wood to him. “It may take several strikes to split. If the head bounces, make sure that your face isn’t in its way.” He holds out the axe to me.
I have to take it from him.
Which means I have to come within a few feet of him. I try to pretend I’m not terrified of him as I inch just close enough to grasp the handle. One of his eyebrows twitches, but other than that, his face reveals nothing.
With one hand, he grabs a new log and affixes it atop the stump. He steps back to give me room, though not as much room as I want. My back prickles from his gaze. I grind my teeth.
Gripping the handle of the axe, I brace my legs. My fingers flex. I’ve got to impress the prince. Or, at least, I’ve got to satisfy him with my progress.
I chop.
The sound that comes out of my mouth is not at all masculine. The head of the axe hits the wood and bounces back toward me. The prince reaches out and catches the handle just before it smashes me in the forehead. I stare stupidly at the thick veins of his hand and wrist.
“What did I say about keeping your face out of the way?” he says.
I bow my head. “I am foolish, Master.”
He doesn’t reply. I wait several long moments, and then cautiously peer up at him. Is the corner of his mouth very slightly lifted?
He returns the axe to me. “Try again.”
I exhale through my nose and take the axe. Is it possible that he won’t kill me? Or punish me some other way for my incompetence? This is the same prince who told me humans aren’t allowed to serve him in the Nothril Court, and yet he deigns to instruct me on how to accomplish my chores. Is he on his best behavior while in the human lands so we will trust him and allow him to do whatever he came to do?
On my next swing, the axe gets stuck.
“Rock it as I previously demonstrated,” says the prince.
I throw all my effort into it. Perhaps it would be easier if the log was rooted into the ground and not prone to moving. I use my foot to keep it still. Then I pause, the warmth of the day making sweat bead across my forehead. I give a hard upward jerk and the axe comes free.
“You might be doomed to chopping your own wood, sir.” The words are out before I remember that I am not Kat, but a servant boy. My eyes fly wide with horror. “That is, my lord, I will master this. I promise. I—”
He blinks slowly. “Try again.”
I manage to keep my girlish war cry behind the seal of my gritted teeth as I try again. The axe flies through the air. It bounces off again, but this time I succeed both in creating a small crack and dodging the sharpened iron coming for my face.
“Again,” says Rahk.
I do as he says. Over and over again. Until, finally, a resounding crack splits the air. The log splits in two, and I stare bug-eyed at it. Then I blurt: “That was awesome !”
“I’m glad you think so.” His flintlike jaw shifts, his mouth twisting, a lightness coming into his cold eyes. “Because there is a lot to do. If it’s too much, one of the other servants can handle it.”
“No, master! I will do this!”
He gives a single shrug and strides back to the manor. I stare after the retreat of his tall form, processing only now that I’m in full view of his study’s window. I spin around and face the task before me.
“You don’t stand a chance,” I tell the pile of logs.
I throw every bit of my strength into my blows, honing my accuracy as I work. With each strike, I unleash my relief that he didn’t recognize me.
I can finally relax.
If he hasn’t figured out who I am by now, then he won’t. My disguise—both then and now—has worked.
I chop the wood for his hearth and return to the project of his bedchamber. I take his unpacked trunks to Edvear and follow his instructions for where to put them. I draw fresh water from the well outside for the basin and pitcher of water in his bathing chamber. When I can see nothing else that needs to be cleaned, arranged, or sorted, I run outside to the garden and clip a few sprigs of flowering basil to put in a vase on each of his windowsills. I must do what I can to make this room a pleasant smelling, but not overpowering, room for him to be in.
The mysterious door in the bedchamber finally beckons me too much, and I crack it open. It’s probably my responsibility to ready this room too, anyway.
What I find is a very small room with nothing but a rack to hang clothes, a bed for one person, and a small nightstand beside it. I’m not sure what to make of it, but I clean it like I did the main room.
Eventually, when the golden glow coming through the windows darkens, I look up. And I realize I’ve done everything I can possibly think of doing. I sag against the wall, my limbs threatening to give out completely.
I’m not sure I’ve ever worked so hard in my entire life. And I don’t think I’ve ever been this exhausted—even after my raids.
There is something satisfying about surveying the room now. I give it one more study, and then I force my legs to carry me into the hallway. I shut the door behind me and hurry to find Edvear.
He is setting a single place in the dining room.
“What do I do now, sir?” I ask, barely hoping Edvear’s activities indicate that I will not be required to serve the prince his dinner.
“Master Rahk will eat here. You are finished for the day. Go eat with the other servants and take your rest.”
I nearly sag in relief. “Where do I sleep?”
He gives me a funny look, as if I should know these things—since I am the younger brother of a maid and all that. Still, he doesn’t press, and only answers: “You sleep in the adjoining room attached to Master Rahk’s.”
That small room was . . . my room?
My entire body seizes up. I’m supposed to sleep only a few paces from the prince, with only a door between us? How am I going to run raids? How will I keep the proper distance I need between the prince and I?
“You are dismissed,” Edvear says pointedly.
I slip out of the dining room, letting my feet carry me to the kitchen and the servants’ hall, where the servants who do not have tasks keeping them busy have sat down for supper. Just as I shut the door to the servants’ hall, I glimpse the prince striding down the hallway toward the dining room.
As though sensing me, he looks up. His black gaze pierces me, holding me in place until he strides out of my vision.
I release the breath I was holding.
There is an open length of bench at the table beside the young girl I saw in the kitchen earlier. Wordlessly, I take that seat and gratefully accept the bowl of stew and slice of buttered bread offered me.
The girl watches me while I eat. Don’t talk to me, I think desperately. Please don’t talk to me.
“Hello!” she chirps brightly. She’s missing one of her front teeth. “My name is Rebecca, but you can call me Becky. What is your name?”
I sigh, then turn and offer her a smile. “My name is Nat.”
“You are the attendant for the Master?” she asks. When I nod, she continues. “My mama is the one who cooks all the food. Say hi, Mama!”
The woman ladling stew into bowls smiles at me. “I’m Charity Finch. You can call me Charity. Except when Mrs. Banks is around. Then call me Mrs. Finch.” She winks.
“I’m too young to be a servant,” Becky says, ignoring her food in favor of talking. “But Mama has to work because Papa died several years ago, and I’ve got nowhere to be and it’s not safe for me on the streets. So I get to mend all day. It’s nice. I can go outside when the weather is beautiful, and I can stay inside when it’s raining, and Mama will fix me a cup of hot chocolate. Here! Let me show you what I was working on before we stopped for dinner!”
She hops off the bench. I keep eating as she fetches her work. I didn’t consider this dynamic of my disguise. This girl thinks I am a boy only a year or two older than herself.
She comes back a moment later with a flannel coat. My mind immediately leaps to Bartholomew, and I shove a bite of stew into my mouth, swallowing hard.
“There was a rip in the side seam. I’m almost finished mending it. Look!”
I look. I can barely tell where the original stitching ends and her mending begins. I’m genuinely impressed. “Those are very neat stitches.”
Becky blushes furiously. I pretend I don’t notice and return my focus on my food.
“Is the lad a connoisseur of stitching?” laughs Clifford, whose muddy boots have been left at the door.
“No, sir. My sister’s stitching is very nice though, so I can tell a little bit.”
The apples of Charity’s cheeks are round and rosy when she smiles. “You should go rest, Nat. You look like you’re going to fall asleep here at the table.”
She takes my finished bowl and I could kiss her for giving me an excuse to not stay and meet the rest of the staff. I get to my feet, bid her thanks, and leave after grabbing my little bundle of things and my spare uniform that I left here this morning.
The dining room door is shut when I pass it, but the shadows beneath it remind me just how occupied it is. I pick up my pace and do not relax until I’m safely locked inside my new room.
I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep knowing that the prince can enter his room at any moment. Then I’ll be trapped inside this small closet of a bedchamber. For that reason—and despite the way my ribs scream for me to remove my chest binding—I dare not undress.
I flop into the small bed as I am.
Then, remembering something, I sit upright and grab my bag. I rifle through it until I find what I’m looking for: the tailor’s scrawled notes. My eyes land on one unfamiliar place in the column of familiar fae Courts.
The Star City.
Somehow, despite my long days and my employer ending up being the terrifying Nothril prince, I need to get information from him that will help me learn which Path leads to the Star City.
I return the paper to my bag and lay back down. My last thought is spent wondering how long it’ll be until the prince comes to sleep. Then my exhaustion overtakes me.