chapter one #2
I fight the urge to empty my stomach as a wave of pain rolls through my body.
Cursing the brace, I clench and unclench my fingers, forcing myself to ignore it.
I should feel bad about the infanticide, and a small part of me does, yet it’s hard to care when a handful of people burn to ashes every week.
Besides, if the baby wasn’t human, it was no different from taking down an animal in the woods, was it?
That shadow creature, on the other hand . . .
I frown. Magic should not be part of a society. Power like that corrupts your soul and paves a path straight to damnation. Such should belong to the Father alone.
Another wave of pain leaves me with no more time to contemplate the ethics of the minister’s actions. Experience tells me I can only push the limits of the brace for so long before I pass out, and the black spots that dance before my vision tell me it’s a close call.
Breathing deep, I peek around the corner, scanning the narrow lanes for any signs of movement.
An eerie, almost vacuum-like silence hangs over the town, broken only by the occasional caw of a crow.
I let out a sigh of relief when the black scavengers are the only living beings in sight, the streets devoid of any other life signs.
With one last glance around, I step into the street.
I have not made it far down the winding road when I spot the tall frame of a deeper darkness in the night.
I freeze in place. A mere few streets away, that same dark creature stands immovable as a stone.
Its dark silhouette is barely discernible, yet I can feel its penetrating gaze fixed upon me.
Holding my breath, I tiptoe backward, seeking refuge in the darkness of the narrow alley behind me, sending a silent prayer for the darkness to hide me. A moment passes, then another.
Oh, Father. Why can’t you ever do what you’re supposed to do? Not for the first time, I wish I had been born a different person.
Despite the cool night air, sweat forms on my forehead. I count to one hundred, forcing my breath to be slow, before I dare a peek around the corner.
The creature is gone.
Without hesitation, I set off down the deserted streets in the opposite direction, lifting my skirts scandalously high as I race toward the safety of my home.
By the time I arrive at the Coperie estate, I’m gasping for air.
Breast heaving, I take a moment to calm down before I slip through the iron gates and toward the servants’ entrance in the back.
The steep descent of the stairs is made perilous by a thin layer of ice, threatening to send me tumbling, but gripping the rail in a firm hold, I make it down in one piece.
It doesn’t help that my legs are threatening to give out on me.
I lean an ear toward the door before I look inside. Everything is silent save for the familiar snoring of Master Coperie’s footman, sleeping by the fireplace. I’m not the only one who takes advantage of our master’s drunken nights.
He looks peaceful where he sleeps, the soft glow of the dying embers illuminating his face. Still, I have to fight the urge to kick him as I pass by. He’s snitched on me too many times to count, and my body bears the scars to prove it.
Tiptoeing across the wooden floor, I take care to avoid the squeaky floorboards as I hurry toward my small chamber in the back.
Once inside, I turn and lean against the door.
My legs give out, and I sink to the floor.
Rubbing that hollow space in my chest, I lean my head back and let out a long-held sigh.
Thank the Father no one noticed I was gone.
I don’t know how long I sit there, but at some point I manage to push myself back up. Peeling off my thick gloves, I turn and hang my felt cloak on a peg by the door, then stumble into bed. Sleep, that’s what I need. I’ll deal with the implications of what I witnessed tomorrow.
A PIERCING SCREAM WAKES ME from my slumber, and it takes a moment before I realize it’s my own. I sit up with a jolt, gasping for air. My heart pounds in my chest, and my body is covered in a thin layer of sweat.
The dream won’t leave me; I try to shake it off, squeezing my eyes shut, which only causes it to vividly repeat itself.
Hovering, as if witnessing my own dream, I watch myself, bound to the floor, while a hooded dark figure trails the perimeter of the circle, methodically breaking the necks of one infant after another, their bodies falling to the ground with a sickening thud.
I’m in what appears to be a temple, or some place of worship.
The stone walls are lit with torches, while tall, twisted shadows move in my periphery.
I’m bound in the middle, limbs stretched out into a pentacle, resembling a centerpiece of some depraved ritual, while thirteen of the ominous dark creatures, their features hidden within their hoods, use their writhing tendrils to hold me in place.
At the head of the circle stands a man wreathed in darkness, powerful and terrible as death itself, his hands raised, palms facing me, draining me of my very life force. I can see it leaving my body as I’m sucked dry.
I shake my head to dispel the unsettling images.
Relax, La?na. It was just a dream.
With a glance around the room, I take in its familiarity—the dark stone floor, the neatly folded clothes on the stool near the door, the washbasin in the corner.
After lighting a candle, I tiptoe over the freezing floor toward the washbasin, cursing the cold as I crack the thin layer of ice that has formed on top of the water.
Determined to scrub away the haunting events of the night, I reach for the soap.
My hands shake, and it’s not only because of the nightmare.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the gentle fragrance of pine emitted by my soap, and splash some of the cool water onto my face.
I stare back at my pale reflection in the bulky mirror.
The lone candle does little to banish the shadows of the room, but it provides enough light for me to notice the deep circles beneath my eyes.
Pushing the boundaries of the brace always leaves me drained, and this morning, I’m a hairbreadth away from looking like a ghost. Blue veins are visible through my translucent skin, and my pale eyes are sunken and bloodshot.
If Master Coperie sees me like this . . .
My stomach churns. It’s a telltale sign I’ve been acting out of place.
I splash another handful of icy water onto my face.
Whatever I witnessed during the night is far beyond my wildest imagination.
It’s also a sharp reminder of my own insignificance.
If not even newborns are safe from the wrath of the Father, where does that leave me?
I’m not even a free being—I am Property for Father’s sake; I live at the whims of my very human master.
Slipping a thick gray wool dress over my linen shift, I button it to my chin and savor its comforting warmth.
Should I sell the information? It is, after all, why I risk my hide every night. Still, the severity of the situation makes me question my plan. There’s no doubt that information on the minister’s involvement with infanticide and shadow creatures will bring good money, but is it worth the risk?
Chewing on my lip, I push a couple loose strands of ash-brown hair under my linen coif and fasten the veil that covers the bottom half of my face.
Information like this could bring me money.
Enough money. I’ll discuss it with Em and take it from there, I decide.
If she’ll even listen. I pluck a piece of lint off my apron.
Lately, our conversations feel more like negotiations than the whispered conspiracies we used to share.
With one last glance into the mirror, making sure I look presentable, I head for the door.
A wave of warmth hits me as I step into the kitchen.
Steam rises from a pot of simmering porridge, and I take a deep breath, cherishing the comforting aroma, allowing my shoulders to drop as the heat of the hearth chases away the chill.
The soft gray light of dawn seeps through the windows, spilling over loaves of bread cooling on a wooden rack.
The portly elderly cook, her hands dusted with flour, turns toward me as I close the door.
“G’morning, La?na.” She smiles.
“Good morning, Mrs. Cooker,” I sign. Keeping my gaze low, I give the older woman a deep curtsy.
“Oh, stop that nonsense, will ye?” She waves her spoon at me. “Sit. Breakfast’s almost ready.” She gestures toward the simmering porridge.
“I’m not hungry,” I sign. It’s not a lie—the night’s events left me with little hunger.
“Then why are ye here in the kitchen?” Mrs. Cooker narrows her eyes at me. “I swear ye get skinnier by the day, lass. Look at ye!” She waves at me with her spoon again. “As pale as a sheet!” Striding across the room, she pokes my belly, causing my treacherous stomach to rumble loudly in response.
She gives me a pointed look as I wave her spoon away and shakes her head with a look of exasperation.
“Ye not gonna be of much value if ye faint from exhaustion, now are ye?”
Ushering me toward a seat at the end of the table, she adds a generous spoonful of butter onto the top of the porridge, then pushes the bowl toward me. “Eat.”
I flinch. It doesn’t feel right that I eat well when most of the city is on the brink of starvation.
She brings me a mug of milk and sits down opposite me, her gaze unwavering, as if she wants to make sure I eat every bite. “Master Coperie will dispose of ye if ye too weak to fulfill yer duties, lass.”
I trace the lines in the wood of the weathered kitchen table, pretending not to notice her scrutinizing gaze. We’re both well aware of what “dispose” truly means.
“It’s not like I fulfill my duties now either,” I sign.
Her shoulders sag. “No bleed?”
I shake my head.
“Ye cannot give up hope yet.”
I rub my chest, feeling the hollowness inside like a physical void. There’s less chance with each passing day. I’m a grown woman, after all. I’ll be twenty-one by the time the leaves change.
I give her a faint nod, though I don’t believe it.
I’ve tried everything humanly possible. “For a while, I thought it would be a blessing . . .” Heat rises in my cheeks as I sign, my gaze fixed on the table.
There is no way I’ll ever be suited to pleasure Coperie—a master may not bed his property until she has had her first bleed.
“I know . . . I know so very well, La?na.” She sighs. “Let me see yer hands.”
I hesitate. Clenching my teeth together, I peel off both gloves, revealing the painful blistered skin on my palms.
Noticing her pained expression, I pull my hands out of her grasp. “I’ve told you I don’t want your pity.”
If she’s offended, she doesn’t show it. “Everyone needs someone, lass,” she says as she walks to the corner cabinet and retrieves a small jar. “Ye not meant to fight all yer battles alone.”
I turn away from her, unable to bear her pained expression. Alone sounds perfectly fine to me. Alone means I’m no one’s property.
“I found this at the market.” She hands me a small jar.
“It should help a little. Rub yer hands morning and evening. It will dull the pain.” Her gaze sweeps over me.
“As well as anywhere else ye may need it.” There is genuine sorrow in her deep brown eyes.
“Father knows I wish I could do more for ye, lass . . .”
I shake my head, my hands moving quickly. “I don’t want you to interfere on my behalf,” I sign. “It won’t change anything; it will only get you whipped. At your age, that will be as good as a death sentence.” My hands fall back into my lap.
“True as it may be, I don’t have to like it,” she grumbles as she pushes the bowl of porridge closer to me. “Now finish the rest of yer food. The Father knows ye need to eat if yer body is to heal.”
A pang of guilt washes over me for keeping my plans to buy my freedom a secret from her. It’s safer for her if she doesn’t know.
“I’m sure it will be all right,” I sign instead, praying that I’m right. Ignoring the nauseating feeling in my stomach, I stuff down the rest of the porridge, not wanting to argue with her. “I need to go.” Lifting my veil, I finish my milk with a determined gulp and push back my chair.
Her forehead creases with worry. “Don’t ye forget to be back before—”
“Trust me, I’m aware when he wakes,” I sign, then lift my left arm. “Hard not to.” I tap the brace underneath the long sleeve of my dress.
Still, I can feel her worried gaze burning into my back as I leave.