11. The Airlock ution #3
“So would you be if you didn’t eat properly for three years. Leave him alone.” In a thoughtful way, she says, “He actually looks pretty good, considering…” She leaves the sentence unfinished, biting her lip.
My heart beats faster.
“Considering what?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Checking the room, she adds, roughly, “And keep your voice down.”
I think over everything she’s just said. And something sticks in my head.
The room spins.
Three years, she’d said. But that would mean…
I gasp.
“He’s been starving since he came here?”
Her grey eyes skim the ceiling. “Did I not say that already?”
“No!”
“Ara. Do you want me to train you, or not?”
“Of course I do. But, why?” I pry. “Why would he do that?”
She sighs, still looking up, as if signalling to the universe itself that she’s miserable.
“Okay,” she says, eventually. “I’ll tell you. But only so that you don’t start trying to get it out of him yourself, which would make him feel really awkward.” Crushing my hope, she says, “And not in here, where people might hear us. Another time.”
I nod, and with the speed of a small whirlwind, she shifts our position to show me the next move.
By the time we’re done, I’m dripping with sweat. I’d love to get clean, but when I say that to Riss, she just looks at me apologetically.
“They only open the baths every couple of days. Too much effort to get them ready. So, since they were open yesterday—”
“That’s terrible,” I say. “When it’s so hot here, too.”
“The ship is run by men,” she says simply. “What do you expect? They’re inherently vile.”
“So, what do the women do?”
Her eyes flash. “We do what we always do. We improvise.”
Riss’ improvisation turns out to be a barrel in her cabin and a couple of tanks she’d filled up herself with water while out on a mission yesterday – the same mission we’d caught her returning from when I first met her.
“I’ll wait outside and make sure no one comes in,” she says. “Oh, and you can take the hairbrush that’s inside the dresser. I bet they didn’t give you one, did they?”
“No.”
“Has anyone told you about how to get laundry done?”
“No…”
“Sorry,” she says. “There’s a place we call the Laundry on Deck 2.
You can use it to wash your own clothes, if you have anything from home.
But just leave any dirty uniform there, and it will get sent down to the ground for laundering.
And they’ll issue you with fresh sets. We can go down there later. ”
I nod. I know vaguely about this system. It’s what was what Cosmer’s mother did – laundering uniforms for soldiers. A tough, underappreciated job that ruined her hands and back, and never gave them the Provision they needed to live on.
If it had, maybe he would never have ended up coming here.
“Thank you, Riss,” I say. “I really appreciate... everything.”
Her chin tilts. “I can trust you to bathe on your own, can’t I? You’re not going to do anything in here you shouldn’t?”
“Yes. I just want a bath.”
I hold my bar of soap up, a little pathetically, to prove my point.
“Okay,” she says. “I trust you.”
She leaves.
As I strip naked and climb into the barrel, I think that through.
She trusts me. A prisoner.
Do I trust her?
I’d scoffed when Cosmer suggested I might make a friend out of her. But she’s been fairly kind to me, all day, in her spiky Riss way.
But Drake had said not to trust anyone up here. We have to stay focused. Stay loyal.
I think it all over as I soap myself – but as I run my hands over my arms, my forearms prickle. I look down to inspect them. The little round marks I have there, on each arm by the crook of my elbows, seem more red and raw than usual.
I’ve always had them. I must have had a rash as a child, and the scars never faded. I’m embarrassed by them, but I suppose I can’t complain. I’ve seen men and women whose whole faces have been scarred by pox.
I’m not sure why my own would now be stinging. Maybe the starched prisoner blouse has irritated them.
After only a few heavenly minutes of enjoying my own company for the first time up here, Riss calls through the door.
“Are you finished? Cosmer and Drake are here.”
I panic.
I’d thought I’d have more time.
I stumble to get out, leaving the floor a little wet. I pick up my clothes, but decide by the smell of them that I can’t put them on again.
I settle for just my corset with the blouse over the top of it. It’s long and loose enough that nothing too improper is on show – by Hevallan standards, that is. By Rhavnan standards, Old Mother would be fainting.
There isn’t much I can do about it, so I pull on my boots and open the door. I end up almost knocking out Riss with it.
“Sorry,” I say to Riss, shutting the door behind me and side-stepping her.
“You’re fine,” she says.
I look up. Cosmer and Drake, less than a foot away in the narrow hallway, are both staring at me – or rather, my bare legs.
I instantly regret my decision.
Then remember that if I can’t change it, I have to take ownership of it.
I stand taller. Avert my eyes from them all as I spin on my heel and trudge towards my cabin.
“Are you coming, Cosmer?” I call behind me.