Chapter 9
Asoft tapping noise pulls me from my usual dream of emerald eyes.
I’m not sure when I fell asleep or how long I’ve been out.
I suppose it doesn’t matter. I have nothing to do but wait for Death to come for me anyway.
I lift my head and listen closely. When it doesn’t come again I lay my head back down on the floor.
I’m fairly certain I’m getting splinters in my bald head and my muscles are screaming in pain, but I don’t care.
The tapping noise comes again.
“Vayna,” Isi’s voice whispers through the door.
I use the strength I have left to drag myself to it. “Isi,” I whisper back, relieved to hear her voice. “Isi, he locked me in the Abysm.” I rub my eyes to relieve the pressure building behind them, flinching at the pain from the bruises there.
“I know,” she whispers.
Hurt and betrayal flash through me. If she knew, why didn’t she help me?
Do something? I shake the feeling off quickly.
Of course, she couldn’t help me. If Otyx caught her, she would have joined me.
The only thing worse than being locked in that fucking closet is being locked in there with another body.
“He locked me in here too, Isi. He said he won’t let me out until my hair grows back. That I will go without meals.” The tightness in my voice is pathetic, but this is Isi. I can trust her. “He’s sentenced me to death.”
“Oh, by the abysm,” she whispers. “How did he find out about the wig?”
“He said he watched me scratch at it all day.”
She sighs. “I tried to tell you.”
“I know. I don’t need the I-told-you-so’s, thank you,” I snap. Is that really all she can say? What happened to my supportive, kind, loving best friend?
“I’m just saying.”
“Well don’t! I know I fucked up. And now I’m going to die in this fucking room!” Where I’m finding the strength to fight with her, I don’t know, but it feels good to feel something other than pain and crushing defeat.
“Hey, don’t yell at me. I wasted two years getting you that hair for nothing. And for the last time, watch your language.” Her voice barely rises.
I roll my eyes and take a deep breath. I want to argue that it wasn’t real, that it’s impossible that that woman took years off our lives, but I decide against antagonizing her, even if she is annoying me. She’s the only one here who will help me.
“Can you get me something to eat and some water? Please?” I swallow the dust in my throat.
I may have drank more than my fill from the bucket, but it wasn’t enough.
And I haven’t eaten anything but a loaf of hardtack since we came back from the wigmaker’s shop.
Despite the nausea and panic, I know I need to eat something if I have any hope of surviving.
“I’ll try, but it’ll be suspicious if you aren’t dying,” she says so indifferently it makes my heart stutter in my chest. Why is she being so callous?
“I’ll fake it,” I say through gritted teeth. “Just, please, bring me something. Anything.”
She sighs and I hear her footsteps retreating down the hall.
I wait, grinding my teeth against the pain in my stomach and the dizziness in my head. I’ve been starving many times before, so it’s nothing new. Doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable though.
I listen to footsteps coming back up the hall.
They stop in front of my door and from the gap underneath the door, in slides five hardtack loaves, one after the other.
I gather them up and bite into the first one greedily and immediately choke.
My mouth is so dry; I don’t have enough saliva to swallow.
I’m about to beg Isi for some water when a waterskin is forced through the small opening.
It barely has any water in it since the space clearly wouldn’t accommodate a full one but I gulp it down greedily and shove the empty waterskin back under the door.
With my mouth less dry, I wolf down three of the hardtack loaves. It only serves to dry me out once again, but at least the hunger pangs will soon subside.
“Thank you, Isi. You’re the best,” I whisper to the door as I lean my head against it.
“I know,” she whispers back. I smile as I listen to her footsteps move back down the hall.
I gather up the rest of my stash and hide it under my mattress. It will probably attract mice and other vermin, but that’s a risk I have to take. I must ration.
Water is another story, though. The small amount Isi brought me is not enough to sustain life, even if she were to bring it constantly, which is not a feasible option.
With my stomach silenced and my head a little clearer, I look around the room for a solution.
It doesn’t take long. The only option is the minuscule, plastered-in window.
But if I break it and Otyx finds out, he’ll be more enraged than he already is, not to mention the cold it will let in come winter.
If I survive that long. But if I don’t break it, I’ll die a slow, painful death by dehydration.
Decisions, decisions.
I stare at the window, thinking, weighing my options. A part of me is glad to have a problem to solve. Otherwise, my unease would likely be rearing its ugly head, and I would be a panicking puddle on the floor.
I pull my dagger from my sheath, now noticing the small chip I put in it by stabbing at the lock in the Abysm.
If I make it out of here alive, Feron is going to kill me anyway.
Sighing, I begin slowly chipping away at the plaster surrounding the window.
It’s crumbly and weak, so it’s not difficult.
Soon enough, the window loosens enough for me to slip it out of the frame.
The sound of pouring rain and the smell of fresh air greets me.
I’ve never been more grateful for Kalsevden’s rainy summers.
What used to be a nuisance while living on the street is now my salvation.
I gently place the thin glass on the floor, leaning it against the wall.
The remnants of my vandalism glare at me from the windowsill.
I quickly sweep all the plaster chunks and dust into my palm, making sure I leave nothing behind.
If Otyx decides to check on me, I want no evidence of my bid for survival.
I dump the dust out the window, letting the rain wash it away.
I refocus on my mission, now looking for something to collect rainwater in. I spin around my bedroom, examining everything I own. But there’s nothing that will catch and contain water for long.
I’ll need Isi’s help with this one. I replace the window and wait for her to return. I wait for hours, and the rain stops in the meantime. Fear clutches my heart. Kalsevden may be rainy, but there comes a time when the rains stop for months. I can only hope that’s not right now.
Two weeks have passed since Otyx locked me in here.
At least, that’s what the count I’ve scratched into the wall says.
I’m no longer worried or afraid. I’m bored out of my mind.
I’ve counted the floorboards at least a thousand times.
Thirty-two boards. And I’ve talked to Isi through the door when she was sure she wouldn’t get caught.
That first night I was locked in here when Isi finally returned with another nearly empty waterskin and a few more loaves of hardtack, I kept the waterskin.
Thank the gods and goddesses the rainy season wasn’t quite at an end, and I was able to refill it with rain water the next day.
I’ve rationed my food and water daily, not fully counting on more rain or more food from Isi.
I’ve told Isi everything during my imprisonment. About my mother, my father, my life before all this. And she listened, not saying much. I’ve asked her about her family, but all she would tell me is she doesn’t have one.
I asked her how she knew the wigmaker. She told me through her family.
She didn’t see the contradiction when I pointed it out, or was choosing to ignore it.
I asked about her scars, but she told me it was none of my business and stormed away.
She didn’t talk to me for two days after that, only stopping by to slip hardtack under the door. I knew not to touch the subject again.
We talked about the patrons of the bordello, about the other artifacts, most of whom ignore both of us, and we talked about our favorite everything.
Colors, foods, seasons, stories, the list goes on.
Most importantly, we talked about the future.
I made plans to get out of this shithole—of course, she scolded me for cursing when I called it that—and to get a small house near the water where we’d live the rest of our lives happy, healthy, and whole.
While we weren’t sure if Bottom would change his mind and let me out before I died, I told her that if he did, I’d save up all of my money and buy her freedom from Otyx, no matter how long it took.
Then she’d owe him nothing and could live freely, live honestly.
She told me Otyx doesn’t sell freedom.
I’m lying on my bed, counting the cracks in the plaster ceiling again when I hear footsteps coming down the hall.
They aren’t Isi’s. They’re heavier, more commanding. They are Otyx’s. I sit up on my mattress, readjusting when the hay pokes me in the ass, and stare at the door, my heart in my throat.
The key scrapes against the lock and the door flies open.
Berttom’s standing on the other side, glaring at me.
My stomach drops to the floor. He looks around the room as bile rises in my throat.
I’ve lost a lot of weight and muscle being trapped in here, only surviving on hardtack, so I have no doubt it still looks like I’m actively dying.
But there are other signs of my attempt at survival.
Please don’t notice the window. The glass is in place but it’s loose from taking it in and out repeatedly. Any small gust of wind and it rattles like mad.
Suddenly, he throws a pile of fabric at my face.
“Get cleaned up and put those on. Clearly Death doesn’t want you, so I may as well get more use out of you. You’re going back out there. If you want to look like a boy, you’ll dress like a boy.”
Out of the pile of clothes, I pull out a pair of trousers that will most definitely be too big and a threadbare tunic. I’ve never worn trousers before and it sends a small thrill through me. I imagine it’s much easier to move in trousers, to fight or outrun anyone. I look back to Otyx and nod.
He clomps back down the hall and I scurry behind him before he can change his mind, grateful to be seeing something other than the four walls of my bedroom. I follow him down a flight of stairs to the second floor. He continues down them while I turn toward the bathroom.
“And Red,” he calls after me. My heart skips a beat.
I turn to face him. “Yes?”
“You’ll only be getting five percent of your take. And you will be grateful for that.”
I grit my teeth. Five percent is fucking nothing. I’ll never save enough for my future, let alone Isi’s, and he knows it.
I nod. “Thank you,” I say, trying to keep the venom from my words.
He nods and continues down the stairs as I continue to the bathroom.
Ass weasel.
Two weeks of sweat and grime and doing my business in the bucket Otyx threw into my room on my second day, saying he didn’t want to have shit all over his floor when I finally died, has me feeling more like a rat than woman.
I tried my best to wash my face and body when the rains came but it was more important to collect water to drink.
I couldn’t hold the waterskin and wash myself at the same time. I couldn’t risk dropping it.
I dump the buckets sitting beside the tub into it. There’s always water available here. It’s one of the jobs of one of Otyx’s male artifacts. It’s very rarely hot though.
I sink into the tub and despite the cold water, I find myself relaxing.
I want to soak in the clean water and let it wash away the misery of the last few weeks.
Let the sweat and tears and dirt slough off on their own, but if I’m not down on that street picking pockets soon, Otyx will come back, and that is a risk I am not willing to take.
I scrub quickly, which takes me less than half the time now that I don’t have to worry about my hair, dry, and dress.
I look at myself in the mirror above the vanity.
I look like a pre-pubescent boy. A small smile plays on my lips.
Maybe I’ll never grow my hair back. Being a boy in the Rookery is certainly better than being a woman.
Before I can let that thought take root, I shake my head.
Otyx will surely kill or sell me if I don’t start looking like myself again.
I’m sure part of the reason he keeps me around is he likes the way I look.
As much as that makes my skin crawl, I’m willing to go back to looking and dressing how he wants if it means survival.
I slide on my old, worn boots and sprint down the stairs, practically flying out the front door. I stop momentarily to feel the sun on my face, the warm summer breeze ruffling my baggy trousers, then I’m off to work, thankful to be alive.