Within These Wicked Walls(2)

I waited, maybe thirty seconds, probably less—I don’t know, my aching feet were impatient to get off the ground and into a proper bed. Only the sound of footsteps stopped me from pulling it again. The door opened, splashing me with a gust of cold air like a pail of icy water. I shivered and clutched at the amulet around my neck, nearly second-guessing its power to protect me from what was inside.

A white woman with greying hair and a sagging frown scrutinized me from behind small wire-framed glasses. She wore a wool sweater and a long, heavy skirt—an odd outfit for inside, let alone in the desert. Her pale face and hands stuck out like chipped spots on a dark painted wall against her grey clothes and the stone foyer behind her.

She raised her eyebrows, her gaze lingering too long on my face, but not looking me in the eye. My scar. I rubbed my cheek like I was soothing a sudden itch, wishing I could take the long mark on my skin with it. I always forgot it was there until I met someone new, and they stared at it like I’d grown a third eye.

“Andromeda, I take it?”

With just those few words I could tell she wasn’t from around here. Amharic didn’t leave her mouth comfortably—it stuck in all the wrong places.

That is, unless she’d intended to spit the words at me like a curse.

I bowed slightly, trying not to wobble on my exhausted feet. “Yes.”

“The exorcist?”

Exorcist. I forced myself not to roll my eyes at the word. It was vague, limited. We debtera led the worship services with hymns and chants, as well as performed all the duties of the priests, without benefiting from being ordained or esteemed. We were healers. Artisans. Trained to attune ourselves to the spirit world deeper than anyone else would dare to. But, I supposed, for the purpose of my employer … “That’s correct. The exorcist.”

The woman bit her lip. “You look awful young.”

“I look it,” I agreed, but left it there.

“This is not a job for a child.”

“Would you like to see my identification?”

I held the woman’s skeptical gaze firmly, secretly praying she wouldn’t ask for it. Nineteen was an adult, according to law. Old enough to live on the streets, to starve daily. But not, in my experience, old enough to be taken seriously by the elder generation. The less she could judge me on, the better.

“Well … you’re a skinny little thing,” she said, as if the fact was both important and relevant. She opened the door wider and I stepped inside the frigid castle, forcing myself not to rub my shivering arms. “Then again, the grander-looking debtera didn’t do us much good, did they?”

So, she did know my true title, though she pronounced it so strangely I barely recognized the word—deb-TAIR-a, with the accent on the second syllable instead of the first.

The woman shut us inside and, instinctively, I glanced around for an alternative exit. “I’m Peggy, Mr. Rochester’s caretaker. Mr. Rochester will insist you call me that, even though I’m your elder and it should be improper. No, keep your shoes on, child. You never know what you’ll step on around here.”

I stood on one foot to hook the heel of my sandal back on, a violent chill-like pain running through my hand as I leaned against the wall for support. The stone felt like ice. The presence of evil spirits tended to cool down a room, but I’d never felt it to this extent.

Peggy led me through the dim, candlelit hall, the filmy windows only offering a bit more visual aid with the faded sun. I rubbed my arms, then gripped the silver amulet around my neck. It tended to gently pulse when there was an excess of Manifestations nearby—physical proof of the Evil Eye—but it’d never done it as consistently as today. I could practically feel the movement of Manifestations on the high, shadowed ceiling, like a mass of roosting bats, shifting away from the pulse.

“We only have a few hours to get you accustomed to things before curfew,” Peggy said, leading me up the stairs. I slowed to match her pace. “The Waking begins at ten o’clock sharp, and everyone must be locked in their room by then. No exceptions. If you aren’t, only God can help you.”

I supposed the idea of a cursed house was scary to someone who didn’t know how to cleanse it, but I’d never met a Manifestation that could withstand even one of my weaker amulets. “Late at night is when I can do my best work. It’s easier to gauge the Evil Eye when I can see it in action.”

Peggy dipped her chin, peering over her glasses. “You said you’ve done this before?”

“Many times.” To rooms. Not an entire house, let alone a castle. But God knows when—or if—I’d ever get another job offer, not without a debtera license. A little lying was warranted.

“Well, you can take that up with Mr. Rochester. Until then, don’t turn yourself into some great lady and start making your own rules.” She opened a door a few feet from the top of the stairs. “This will be your room. You really should be downstairs with the servants, but Mr. Rochester wanted you down the hall from him. It’s small, but you don’t seem to have much, anyway.”

A woman working for a man whose house was cursed by the Evil Eye didn’t seem like someone who should be judging a poor girl and her lack of possessions … but it wasn’t worth fighting over. I had a room to sleep in. I had food to eat. I didn’t have Jember ordering me to steal drugs for him.