Chapter 4
“You are not concentrating.”
“Not with you shouting at me, no.”
“I am not shouting.”
“If you shouted less, I would miss less.”
“If you missed less, we would be done already.”
Target practice is my least favorite part of the day. No matter how much Taylor drills into my head that mastering the weapon will make me more at ease, I still hate holding a gun and firing at the pathetic mannequins down the field. Even many days in, I’m queasy with a gun in my hands.
She claps her hand over my pistol. “Stop. Breathe. Remember the technique I taught you?” I nod. “Okay. Fix your grip, take a breath, and try again.”
Adjusting my grip and aiming down my sights, I focus on the target ahead of me. It has only one hole in the left shoulder; the other bullets probably lodged in a tree somewhere. That’s actually the only shot I’ve made and I made it on day one. By accident.
I inhale three steadying breaths. Firing off four bullets in succession, I empty the chamber into the mannequin four times, mostly in the chest. Normally I’d celebrate, but Taylor’s gun rules are rooted in my brain and I don’t want to blow my face off showboating a minor accomplishment.
I take my finger off the trigger. I point the gun in the direction that is safest—toward the mannequin—and eject the magazine. Pull back the slide and eject any cartridges. Rinse and repeat. Then, I place the gun down on the table in front of me and remove my protective earmuffs.
“Good.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, come on. That was better than good. I hit it four times. Four shots could kill someone, for sure.”
“You succeeded four times in a controlled environment, after wasting several dozen bullets with your sloppy form and lack of focus. You did well, that is all.”
“A little praise wouldn’t hurt,” I grumble, tossing my ear protection onto the table.
“Neither would a little humility. I want you to be comfortable with a gun, not cocky.” Taylor packs the firearms for another member to use. “Let’s eat lunch. If you want, Claire has consented to letting you loiter in the kitchen for an hour after lunch.”
My mood brightens in an instant. “Really?”
“Yes. I told her if you hit the target at least three times, I would agree. Once the hour is up, Mason will bring you to the obstacles. Would you like to do that?”
I’m filled with puerile joy at the prospect of normalcy. “Yes. Thank you.” Once the adult part of my brain catches up with my squealing inner child, I stop. “How did you know that?”
“How did I know what?”
“That I like to sit in kitchens.”
Taylor turns and raises an eyebrow. “You know by now the ball was not the first time I saw you or was inside your house. I gathered information from people in Leader Piccolo’s employ.”
I blink. “You interrogated my servants?”
“Your servants are Underclass, Miss Piccolo. It was not difficult to get them to talk to me. I’m Underclass too.”
“Yeah, right,” I deride. “Three square meals a day and a private cabin? You’re about as Underclass as I am.”
Taylor narrows her eyes. “Look, do you want to see Claire or not?”
“So, they told you about me?”
Pitching an exasperated sigh, she runs her fingers through her hair. “I needed your usual whereabouts and general behavior to accurately predict where you would be during the ball.”
That does not satisfy me in the least. Who did she talk to? What did they say about me? Which of Papa’s employees is a traitor? I know they hate him, but how could they betray me?
“They were not fond of your father,” Taylor continues. “But they were fond of you.”
“Oh, complimentary traitors. That makes me feel better.”
“It should. The hatred for the Upperclass is something shared in every region, and it is potent. Do not disregard how important it is to be respected. And you do like to be liked.”
“Did they tell you that too?”
“No, Miss Piccolo, that is obvious.” She gestures toward the longhouse. “May we proceed?”
“Fine, but this conversation is not over.”
“Yes, it is.”
After an unfortunately brief time in the kitchen with Claire, my day moves to obstacle training with Mason as Taylor attends to other duties. In the late afternoon I retire to the cabin, awaiting the arrival of my in-demand captor.
I am trusted in these hours, trusted to be alone in Taylor’s cabin and not escape.
Trust, or the arrogant belief I cannot escape.
Whatever it is, Taylor sometimes doesn’t show up for dinner, but Claire always does.
Taylor doesn’t bother ordering herself dinner rations, so Claire’s taken it upon herself to feed the woman, and by proxy, me.
Armed with several baskets and containers, she bustles in the door and starts unpacking. “She’s out again?” Claire asks, plopping her bags down on the counter and popping open a storage bowl.
“She’s a busy beaver.” The air fills with a wonderful aroma of spices. “Wow, that smells incredible.”
“Fixed a real treat for you. Fresh oysters and vino. I made Taylor something else.” Claire arranges a plate for me and transfers another container to the nearly empty refrigerator. “This girl, I swear. Not even a cube of cheese in this fridge.”
I smile as I take my seat and dig in. “Maybe she’s trying to starve me out.”
Claire chuckles and settles on the stool next to mine. She pops open a stout thermos and the alcoholic fragrance of her beverage is briefly overwhelming. “Taylor’s a stubborn mule is what she is.”
“So,” I begin, hoping the liquor will loosen up the amiable chef. “You’re on a real-name basis with Taylor, and you know the combination to her lock. You must be quite familiar with one another.”
Claire nods. “I was on med duty the night they found her. Never seen an infant in such dire straits be so calm.”
“Found her?”
She takes a long pull from her thermos. “Terrible night. Couple of them were out doing rounds and heard crying in the forest. It was little Taylor, skin blue as the sky, wrapped in a thin blanket in an open duffel bag. Theia brought her in and we got to work making sure she’d live through the night.
But she didn’t cry, not once. Watched everyone like she understood what was going on.
She’d already fixed that look. You know the look. ”
“Mm-hmm.” I nod and tip the oyster meat down my throat. “The one like she’s trying to burn a hole through you?”
Claire laughs. “That’s the one. She had a rough first couple of days, but she pulled through magnificently. Then, Theia took her in, and here we are, almost twenty years later.”
“That explains their dynamic better.” I knock back a generous sip of wine and blink innocently.
Claire is no harder to open than these oysters.
That’s probably why they have her stationed here, because if she were elsewhere, she’d blab about the Order to anyone with a kind ear and a bottle of good liquor.
“I thought Theia was her mother. They’re both so serious. And scary.”
“Mm, well, that may be true, but that woman is not her mother. Not by blood, anyway. Taylor was less dour before that hunter business.” Suddenly reticent, Claire pulls from her thermos and slides off the stool, collecting her belongings.
“I should get back to the kitchen before turning in, make sure everything is ready for tomorrow. Enjoy your dinner, Lucy.”
“Thank you so much for the food. I can’t believe you were able to get oysters out here.”
Her eyes crinkle kindly. “Taylor never makes a request from me, so I was more than happy to oblige her.”
That’s news to me. Taylor gave no indication she knew Claire was feeding me at night. I figured she thought I was starving and didn’t care. “Taylor asked you to get me oysters?”
“No, she asked me to bring you something you might’ve eaten in New York.”
“Why?”
Claire shrugs. “Why did she ask? To make you feel more at home, I suppose.” The phrasing stops my hands mid-crack and I set the oyster on my plate.
“Home.” My life has become an uncontrollable trash fire and I am loath to make this my new normal. “Just days ago, they considered executing me, and now she wants me to feel at home. I have no home. They took it from me.”
Claire heaves a sigh like it’s a hefty bag of flour.
She reminds me of Ruby with the distinctly maternal skill of treating everyone as both a blessing and a burden.
“Lucy, I can’t imagine what this is like for you.
I’m sure it’s tough. But, unless I’m mistaken, nobody here is under any obligation to make it any easier.
Despite that, someone is.” She gathers her things together, arms full of baskets and bags. “Have a good night.”
Upon hearing the snap of the lock, I chug the rest of my wine and plop down on the couch.
This is not home. I’ll never be home again.
I’ll never sit on my chaise in my room, I’ll never look out my window and daydream about faraway lands.
I’ll never smell the faint odor of my mother’s perfume pressed between the pages of her books.
I want my home. I want the petrichor rising from the asphalt after a rainstorm.
I want the bed with the blanket my mother gave me.
I want a warm and willing body to touch me in a way that brings me to life.
I want to hear Papa’s gruff voice yell at me for some trivial trespass.
More than anything, I want my choices back.
Near our last day, Taylor brings me to a cavernous theater.
The stage is shrouded in a tattered, thick green curtain, which sways gently above the dusty wood floor.
We file into a row of old wooden seats, creaking and rigidly uncomfortable.
Once the sizable crowd settles, the curtain opens on Theia and the soldiers erupt in raucous applause.
Taylor, Mason, and I are still. In fact, Mason is already taking a nap.