Chapter 2
two
The town, like most of this world, was a cold, dark place.
The Manor gate shut behind me with a groan, and I pulled my black cloak tighter as I marched down the hill. The factories filled the skyline with a hazy gray smoke, and my eyes itched for a moment before a strong breeze frosted my face.
For seven years, I’d taken this path, going down the hill to get to town. I passed rows of manors, spread out and owned by wealthy merchants and powerbrokers. The only men in nicer houses were the ones on the Council.
The manors were tall and wide, sprawling things, made of dark stone and iron. Gates, with tips on each slat, enclosed each property. The plots of land separated the individual families while the gates kept scavengers away.
My feet crunched against the frost-lined ground. The riverbank curved toward dark stone buildings that made up the town. I dodged a cart, a man nodding as he passed before steadily avoiding my eyes.
I can promise you, I’m not a witch. No servant is.
But I’d leaned into the illusion. No one has ever feared a female servant, and with Blackwell Manor empty for so long, it helped for people to be wary.
And I’d always been a little ghoulish. With my pale face and dark hair. I’d heard the whispers.
“Strange little dark squinty eyes,” I once heard the baker say to his wife until she hushed him.
I didn’t think I had squinty eyes, unless I stood in the sun.
Though I did find myself often staring at things until I figured them out.
Such as when I needed to do math to make sure no merchant was ripping me off.
Most think women and servants know nothing about reading or math.
But thanks to my grandmother, I could do both.
She passed away by the time I turned eighteen, but she taught me not to be a fool. And that had gone a great way. It meant I understood the contract Master Blackwell had me sign. I ensured there was no clause about corporal punishment.
I filled my basket with bread and tea, the morning market buzzing. Before his death, Master Blackwell had stayed on a strict diet of soup, due to how he struggled with his teeth in his old age.
Baz, with his bright smile, would not have the same issue. I stopped by the butchers.
With a heavy basket full of supplies, I intended to make my way back home when I spotted her—Gretel.
She passed by on the street, and when she noticed me, I realized her smile could only be rivaled by Baz’s.
“Good morning, Tangwystle.” She didn’t stop, but I felt her eyes linger on me as we crossed paths. My chin turned to look over my shoulder, and for a moment, I met her gaze, her green eyes brighter in the crisp sunlight.
I knew Gretel’s curly blonde hair was soft. And on that day, the curls snaked around her shoulders, bouncing as she walked.
She stood taller than I. Not that that’s a hard feat. And her lithe body swayed as she laughed, the noise vibrating in her throat.
I stomped away.
I found Gretel from Clinemell Manor infuriating.
She smiled too much. Like Baz.
And she always asked to borrow stuff from our kitchen. Of course, smiling as she did so. Not keeping track of one’s kitchen ingredients was hardly something to be amused about.
The only commonality we shared was our status. Female servants, without a lick of magic to protect us.
A shiver ran through me as the wind cut through my cloak. I tugged the material tighter, struggling with the overloaded basket. I added some tarts at the last minute, thinking Baz Coldwell seemed the type to enjoy a sweet treat with his tea.
If it turned out to be the worst thing about him—that he was the frivolous type—I supposed I could deal with it.
But if he turned out to be like Gretel’s employer. Like Master Clinemell. . . I would not like that at all.
I knew exactly why Gretel’s smile annoyed me. Because in my mind, I couldn’t understand how she had the capacity to keep smiling.
Not when I’d found her almost a year ago, lying by the river.
It was a spot I used to see her at frequently. Manor Blackwell kept me busy, but the master of the house liked a type of simple order. Once I got it down to a schedule, I had time to read. I’d go down to the river and sometimes spot her there.
Once, I’d seen her with her dress lifted, her shoes off. She’d laughed when she saw me and waved. I’d squinted in the sunshine, thinking to myself she shouldn’t be walking around barefoot. What if there had been snakes or bugs around?
But then again, by that point I’d known Gretel wasn’t a practical person.
About a year before Baz arrived, the kitchen had grown so stifling in the summer heat that I forced myself to go outside.
I wandered down to the river, liking that it was one of the few spots of nature that wasn’t corroded by the factories or overloaded by scavengers looking to pick up a bit of food or coin.
I stepped through the grass and kicked a rock as I went. It skittered over the bumpy terrain, and I followed it with my gaze. Down and down, until it rolled into a person.
I came to a complete stop, thinking for a moment that a scavenger had finally tried to claim the riverbank. Most didn’t dare go so close to this part of town, knowing many of the manors were owned by those with money, magic, and therefore power.
But it wasn’t a scavenger. Blonde curls against the grass gave away who it was.
The back of her dress was torn, blood oozing from her back.
My knees landed in the grass. “Gretel!” I shook her, trying to see if she would wake. All I got was a funny-sounding moan. The noise shook through me like nails raking down stone.
Wrong, everything about this was so wrong.
I knew Master Clinemell to be a heartless man. This was something else entirely, though.
My fists curled, and for a few seconds I sat pathetically, afraid to touch her. Another, breathy, terrified moan from the girl prompted me forward.
It made for an awkward walk, trying to carry her back to Blackwell Manor.
See, for women in our positions, whatever a master wanted, he could get. For some, like Master Blackwell, it meant a prompt teatime and scones with a bit of fruit mixed in.
But Gretel was much prettier than I. And Master Clinemell much younger than Master Blackwell.
And I knew Gretel slept with him.
I’d passed by their manor, along a walkway only used by the various servants in the neighborhood.
My steps faltered at the distinctive sound of a hand slapping against flesh.
My stomach tightened, my breath leaving me.
Not out of surprise. No—you’d find a servant receiving discipline hardly unusual.
I did my best to keep quiet, though, to creep down the hill and toward the market.
But then I heard giggling.
And when I passed by the gate, I couldn’t help it. Clinemell Manor is similar in shape and structure to Blackwell’s. It received more visitors, and as such, I peeked into the open gate before to see the rose-lined courtyard.
I caught sight of Gretel with her dress pulled up.
And she kept giggling as Clinemell spanked her.
What a stupid woman, I thought to myself. Then she made another noise. Something caught in the back of her throat, something I didn’t want to hear. Something that made me. . .
Stupid woman, I told myself again as I hurried away. But I’m not sure who I was speaking to in that moment. Me or Gretel.
But perhaps Gretel’s giggling couldn’t always save her. In this instance, something had spurred Clinemell’s wrath.
And I knew it had to be him. As a servant, she rarely had leave, outside of coming down by the riverbank or going into the market. I’d seen no carriages the past few days, and they were easy enough to spot in the neighborhood despite our two properties being a slight distance away.
I dragged her up to Blackwell Manor.
In those days, Master Blackwell spent much of his time in the library, and Boswell appeared nowhere in sight. This was for the best as Clinemell could do as he pleased, and despite her need for assistance, Gretel was still at the mercy of her employer.
I knew he wrote harsh contracts, because I’d known the servant before Gretel. She’d worked for the Clinemell families for fifteen years and didn’t have a coin to her name. But she left when it expired, telling me she’d rather risk the outside world than another moment with Clinemell.
I think that’s why I always sensed trouble when I first met Gretel. Too sweet, with her curls and her soft curves. No wonder Clinemell spanked her.
I managed to pull Gretel into the kitchen, and she must have recognized a change.
“Tangwystle,” she moaned, blinking.
I placed her in the pantry.
My intentions weren’t cruel. My muscles already shook from hauling her up the riverbank, and the pantry was the one place I knew no man in Blackwell Manor would wander.
Blood soaked into a bag of flour, and I quickly found blankets, creating a nest as best I could. I stoked the fire in the kitchen, hoping the warmth would seep into the pantry. Her dress disintegrated as I undressed her.
She winced, her eyes never opening, her brow wrinkling as I washed the blood off her back.
Her tiny waist and back made her look so delicate. The whip marks, which I somehow just knew them to be, marred what should’ve been smooth, golden skin.
Master Blackwell kept a hoard of tonics and magical balms. Items infused by skilled magicians. I carefully placed the balm on her back, hoping it would heal the wounds.
I’m not sure if they ever fully did.
I sat up with her most of the night. I cooked Blackwell’s meal and took out a plate for Boswell, who preferred staying in the stable.
The place hadn’t had any dogs or horses in years, but I think Boswell never liked taking his meals in the kitchen.
Or maybe he didn’t like eating with me. We had a good working relationship, but that was the extent of it.
Gretel slept through most of the night. I sat by her side, monitoring her breathing. In and out. Her back muscles rippled, and at times she’d whimper in her sleep.
I dozed at one point because the next thing I knew, my eyes opened to find pretty green eyes staring at me.
“It’s dark in here,” she mumbled.
I’d brought in a lantern, but otherwise she was right.
“It’s the pantry,” I snapped, rubbing at my face and praying her back was better.
“Oh.” She tucked her hands under her cheek, her eyes falling shut again. But at least the small interaction meant she was alive.
I crawled out of the pantry, made breakfast, and washed the linen. Boswell and Master Blackwell never knew who else slept in the manor for those few days. I made her take some broth that night, and when I went to take the bowl, watching her eyes fall shut yet again, I tried to leave.
“No, stay.”
It was the weak voice she used that made me do as she asked. Or at least that’s what I’ve always told myself. It tugged at my heart. And it had to be strange, sleeping in the dark, cold pantry. I’d brought in more blankets, but one could hardly declare the place cozy.
I set the bowl and spoon beside me on the ground. The floor was hard against my back, a thin pillow the only thing cushioning my head.
She continued to make little whimpers in her sleep. They weren’t the deep breaths of sleep or the sharp intake of a troubled air full of lungs. When her face scrunched together, I realized it was due to nightmares.
I’d never encountered something as violent as being whipped. It doesn’t take much to understand nightmares, though. Not when you’re deemed useless thanks to your lack of magic and inferiority as a woman.
“It will be okay,” I lied to her, whispering in the dark. She made a little moan back. I shuffled on the floor, my shoulder just brushing against her arm because I was still worried any sort of contact would cause her injury to flare.
The next day she had broth both for breakfast and dinner. And when I tried to leave, there was another pathetic, “No, stay.”
So I did.
But this time I rolled onto my side. With the lantern out, my eyes adjusted to the darkness.
How could I manage to find her so beautiful even when lying on the floor?
I’d washed her neck earlier, smoothing back her blonde curls. Her pert nose twitched as she slept on her stomach, her chest flat against the blanket upon the ground.
“Go to the Council,” I whispered into the night.
She frowned, her cheek rubbing against her pillow.“The contract,” she replied sleepily.
“Signing a contract doesn’t mean you’re bound to take his punishments.”
Her mouth moved, and part of me wondered if she even understood that our conversation wasn’t a dream.
“Normally it’s just a little punishment before the pleasure,” she whispered. “A little bit too far.”
Scalded. That’s how hot my cheeks went.
“D-did he?”
“It’s okay, Tangwystle,” Gretel said, her eyes still closed.
The memory of Clinemell spanking Gretel came to my mind. Is that what she meant by too far? Had his spanks, which she’d clearly enjoyed that day, turned into something more sinister?
It wasn’t okay.
But while she could go to the Council and complain, I knew it would do no good despite just recommending it a few minutes earlier.
“Tangwystle,” she sighed again in the night. She scooted over, one leg clumsily climbing on top of mine. Her hand snaked out from where it’d cradled her cheek and landed on my stomach. Her naked body pressed to mine.
The next morning, when my eyes blinked open, I found myself in a pantry stocked with flour and onions but no Gretel.
She’d gone back to Clinemell.
It’s not like I could’ve kept her hidden in the Blackwell Manor pantry forever. And if she’d run, it’d only bring the law after her. Clinemell seemed the type to extract the terms of his contract no matter what.
Being gone several days, most likely had already pushed his temper despite the destruction he’d done to her.
I saw her three weeks later at the market.
“Good morning, Tangwystle,” she said, flashing a bright smile. Every time she saw me she always smiled.
But it occurred to me that morning, as I climbed back up the hill to Blackwell Manor with Baz’s breakfast, why Gretel reminded me of him. It’s not just that they smiled, their whole faces breaking into sunlight as they did so.
But that they smiled at me—the girl who never did so.