Before She Ignites (Fallen Isles Trilogy #1)(18)

“I appreciate the opportunity,” I whispered, tilting my head in the way Mother said made hearts melt. It was a light touch. Without Damina’s gifts, I’d had to learn on my own, just little ways of fooling everyone into believing I was deserving of my rank.

Altan gave me a look, like he couldn’t tell if my comment had been genuine or not.

Well, I was grateful for more food. And getting out of my cell.

We entered a small mess hall, already filled with seventeen people bent over plates of food. My stomach growled at the sight of cheese, fruit, and some kind of red meat that dripped grease. I’d never been allowed to eat that at home—I’d never wanted to—but now I couldn’t wait.

“This way.” Altan motioned me around the edge of the room, toward an ancient-looking woman standing over a pile of buckets, rags, and other unidentifiable items. She frowned as Altan and I approached, which just made her craggy, weathered face seem even older. Her skin looked as tough as the leather uniform she wore, which was decorated with gold and silver stitching along the flap that wrapped around her body. Knives and cuffs filled her belt, like she was just waiting for someone to give her an excuse to use them.

“Don’t speak to her,” Altan muttered.

I looked at him sharply. Was that a warning?

But his face was neutral. “Just nod or shake your head. Don’t stand out.”

Was he trying to help me? Gerel might be right about Altan’s intentions. He wanted something from me.

I pulled myself straight, even though I could feel every crack in the floor through my thin slippers, and my dress was filthy and sagged to one side of my body.

“Mistress Sarannai.” Altan bowed to the old woman, who just eyed him like he was muck on her shoe. “I’ve brought you a new worker.”

Before I could even register what was happening, Sarannai grabbed my right hand and turned it over, palm up. Her skin was rough and callused as she stretched out my fingers and wrinkled her face. “Pathetic.” She spit on my hand and released me.

A pale whine gathered in my throat as her saliva dripped off my fingers. I suddenly didn’t know what to do with my hand. Hold it there? Wipe it on my dress? Shake off her spit? None of those things seemed appropriate, especially wiping, because she was glaring at me with almost an amused tilt to her shriveled mouth.

I opted for not moving, but already I could feel my heart speeding and my chest aching and numbers fluttering through my head. Twenty buckets. Thirty seals or awards on Sarannai’s jacket. Seventeen other prisoners gulping down their food. They looked stronger, healthier than the inmates I’d seen in my cellblock.

“This one doesn’t know anything about cleaning,” Sarannai said. “I don’t want her.”

Cold splintered through my stomach. What was I supposed to do if she didn’t want me? How was I supposed to stay strong and fed?

“She doesn’t know much about anything,” Altan agreed.

My face burned.

“I thought you might consider her an empty vessel,” Altan went on. “Fill her up with whatever you want.”

It was only a miracle that prevented me from shuddering. My hand still hung between Sarannai and me, damp and cold. A thread of saliva dripped from my small finger.

Gerel had said I’d regret agreeing to take on a job. I hadn’t realized she’d meant right away.

Sarannai narrowed her eyes at me. “This is the kind of criminal the other islands are sending us now? Soft little girls who’ve never worked a moment in their lives?”

A strange, almost angry sensation welled up inside of me. What right did she have to say any of those things? She didn’t know me at all. She’d just looked at me, spit on my hand, and decided I wasn’t worth the time it would take to tell me where to clean.

I stamped down those feelings. Mother would say—

Well, I didn’t know what Mother would say. I shouldn’t be cleaning, of course, but was that because I was too good for it? Or not good enough?

“This is what they gave us.” Altan threw a dismissive look at me. “There are a few others in the first level, but they’re not ready yet.”

The first level. That was what my cellblock was called. The first stop for prisoners, the place to make us so miserable we broke and agreed to work for them in trade for better accommodations.

I wasn’t broken, though. I wasn’t.

Hristo would remind me to be strong. He’d come for me soon, once the Luminary Council realized they needed me. I just had to survive until then.

“We must work with what we have.” Sarannai grabbed my wrist and yanked me toward her. The calluses on her hand scraped my skin. “Put on something more appropriate for cleaning. Then you can eat.”

Fear and hunger rolled through me as she shoved and I stumbled toward a pile of clothes. Quickly, afraid of what she might do if I was too slow, I picked out trousers and a shirt that might fit me. Both were made of rough, cheap cotton that might have been blended with nettles or sea urchins before the weaving and sewing began. There weren’t undergarments, but even if there had been, I wasn’t sure I’d have been able to wear them. All these things looked secondhand. Maybe fifth.

At least I was able to wipe the spit off my hand without drawing notice. But what I wouldn’t give for soap.

With my new clothes bundled under my arm, I scanned the mess hall for a place to change. Altan and Sarannai were still discussing my uselessness, offering no instructions as to where I should go, and the other prisoners were finishing their meals. A few were up, sliding wooden trays onto a rack at the kitchen window. Three of them leered at me—young men with ashy skin and ragged hair; they must have been here for a long time to look so washed-out.