Before She Ignites (Fallen Isles Trilogy #1)(21)

Eighteen heavy heartbeats thumped by. “Fine,” Mother said. “As long as you remember your responsibilities to Damina, you can keep the dragon.”

That had been . . . easy.

And then it hit me. I hadn’t won. The threat against LaLa had never been real. Mother just wanted a way to persuade me to do what she wanted.

I’d thought I’d been standing up for myself, but I hadn’t.

I’d done exactly what Mother had expected.





CHAPTER SEVEN




I FINISHED CLEANING THE MESS HALL BY LUNCH.

Barely.

With Tirta’s advice in mind, I started at the top and mopped the ceiling. It was possibly the most awkward, messy, and uncomfortable thing I’d ever done, but I went across all forty-five panels one at a time, wedging the mop into crevices to scrub off smoke stains. Dirty water dripped onto my outstretched arms and face and shoulders.

From there I scrubbed the walls, then moved on to the tables and chairs and lights. I worked as thoroughly as possible, especially when I got to the floor. The stains were too much for the mop alone, so I was forced to my hands and knees with a brush, scrubbing until the dirt loosened. The last thing I needed was to miss something and have to do it over again—or worse, for Sarannai to notice. How had maids at home managed such tasks?

My arms and legs trembled by the time Sarannai returned, a frown creasing her face. Her boots tapped the floor as she inspected my work, checking the undersides of the tables, just as Tirta had predicted.

“A fair job,” Sarannai said at last. “Wash yourself and eat lunch when the others come in. Then I’ll give you another room.”

Another room. Great.

But when she went to the food window for her own lunch, I scrambled to the tap where I’d been filling and emptying my bucket all morning. When I’d realized there was running water here, it had taken every drop of my will not to throw my whole body under the stream.

Now, I indulged in a moment of spreading soap across my hands and arms, reveling in the simple pleasure of removing grime from my skin. Unlike the jasmine-and citrus-scented soaps from home, this one stank like animal fat, but it was so much better than nothing.

It was over too soon. Other prisoners began to come in, two and three at a time. No one spoke as they shoveled food into their mouths. The hall echoed with the sounds of chewing and grunting and burping. The ones who’d been leering earlier ignored me now, no longer interested or intrigued. For that, I was glad my anonymity was one of the few things I had here, and I wanted to keep it.

When lunch was finished, seventeen prisoners lined up to get orders from Sarannai. I carried my empty tray to the window and kept my voice low as Tirta acknowledged me with a nod. “I had a dress earlier,” I said.

“I saw.”

“I want to keep it.” It was filthy, but it was mine.

Tirta glanced toward the pile of folded clothes I’d left on a table earlier. A sliver of silk peeked out. “I’ll hide it back here. Get it after dinner.”

I had to take the chance that she truly wanted to be my friend. “I want to wrap my hair,” I whispered. The line for Sarannai was down to five; she barked more and more orders, sending others scurrying from the mess hall. I had to hurry. “Cut a square of silk for yourself if you want.”

Tirta’s eyes lit. “I will.”

Just as the last person finished getting instructions from Sarannai, I rushed into line.

BY DINNERTIME, MY whole body hurt and my hands burned from gripping the mop handle and soapy rags. But I finished my work and returned to the mess hall. Tirta offered a faint nod as I took my tray, and when I glanced toward the pile of clothes, the dress was gone. She’d kept her word. Or stolen my dress.

Just as I sat down to eat, Altan appeared in the doorway.

My chest tightened. I’d spent all day counting stones and brushstrokes and facets of noorestones, trying to distract myself from the swarm of fears circling my every thought. Not only did my muscles ache from the effort it took to clean a huge stone room, but they shook with the sort of exhaustion that always came when recovering from a panic attack. Even a not-quite attack.

And now, with Altan making his way across the mess hall toward me, every hard-won piece of calm threatened to unravel.

I measured my breathing and concentrated on my food. Slimy. Cold. Slightly spoiled. Either Tirta was a terrible cook, or everything she made went to warriors and trainees, and prisoners got leftovers. Still, it was better than what came in the sacks.

Then Altan took the chair across from me and leaned his elbows on the table. “Good first day, Fancy?”

The display drew sidelong glances from the nearby prisoners. They were probably wondering why a warrior would come over and talk to me.

Seven gods, I was wondering why a warrior would come over and talk to me.

I took a huge bite of rye bread and rinsed it with a swallow of weak tea.

“You’ve got a lot of days ahead of you, Fancy. They can be good or bad days.”

Down the table, the prisoners who’d been pretending not to eavesdrop suddenly looked down. Away. Anywhere else. Whatever was going to happen, they didn’t want to know about it.

“I have questions,” Altan went on, like the uncomfortable audience wasn’t here at all. “I bet you can guess what I want to know about.”

Why would he assume I knew anything?