Bring Me Their Hearts(26)
“The Firstbloods reside here,” Y’shennria says, chilly. “Along with the Ministers. There is the Minister of the Brick, who deals in Cavanos’s construction of roads and ships and buildings of import. The Minister of the Blood is the one in charge of overseeing the Firstblood and Secondblood family trees. He allocates funds and ensures the proper inheritances go to the proper inheritors. He’s the one who ‘found’ you and granted your title back to you.”
“What did you bribe him with? It must’ve been something utterly mind-blowing.”
“The Minister of the Coin keeps tabs on Cavanos’s wealth.” She ignores me, speaking louder as if to cover the stain of my words. “And he’s also in charge of overseeing all trade routes in and out of the country.”
As we pass, I pluck a radiant geranium flower from a bush, burying my nose in its orange petals and breathing deep. The carriage comes to a stop not before one of the cream-bricked mansions but at a much smaller, more modest darkstone house. Hard iron spikes decorate the eaves and parapets, looking every part the spines of an angry animal. Unlike the bare, crisp green terraces of the other houses, this terrace is kept in careful chaos with black rosebushes and long, wispy swathes of translucent ghostgrass. Thorns and black petals litter the ground, rotten crimson berries spread and mush in the dirt like trodden hearts of tiny things. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d find somewhere gloomier than even Nightsinger’s forest.
When we pull up, three people in dark uniforms line up before the carriage. Fisher helps Y’shennria and me out, and Y’shennria dismisses him and a shy-looking boy to take care of the horses. The only ones left are an older woman practically folded in two with her ancient posture and a slightly less old man with a dapper white beard and mustache.
“Maeve, Reginall, may I introduce Zera Y’shennria, my niece.” Y’shennria extends her hand to me, and they bow, though Maeve does more of a stiff nod. The urge to insist these formalities aren’t necessary nags at me, but then I spot the mansion next to ours over the hedge. A very well-dressed man and woman taking a walk watch us with eagle-eyed interest from beneath the woman’s parasol. Of course the formalities are necessary, if I’m going to fool these nobles.
“Maeve is our masterful cook,” Y’shennria says. “And Reginall handles the housekeeping. Reginall, if you’d help Zera bring her luggage in—”
“I don’t have anything.” I show him. “Don’t worry about it.”
“On the contrary, miss.” Reginall points to the top of the carriage, where several trunks wait. “You look as if you brought quite a bit.”
My eyes go wide, and I turn to Y’shennria. “How much did you buy at the tailor’s?”
“Just some underthings and shawls,” Y’shennria insists. “Reginall, please be sure to burn the old dress at the bottom of the blue trunk when you get a chance.”
Reginall bows. He pulls a trunk down with surprising speed, but I hurry to catch the second one.
“Milady, I will take these. Please rest inside,” he insists.
“Nonsense. I’ve got two working arms, don’t I? I can help carry my own underpants at the very least.”
Maeve blinks her bleary eyes, as if she doesn’t quite believe what I’ve said. The noble couple at the hedge laughs, the sound carrying over.
“Are the Y’shennrias so poor they have to lift things themselves, now?”
“Oh don’t be crude. They can hear you!”
“Look at their manor—it’s barely standing! Let the last one slander me. No one believes the word of Old God worshippers, anyhow.”
Their words are so cold I practically shiver. I knew nobles were cruel, but this is stepping over the line. Y’shennria looks to them, then to me, and grasps my arm, leading me through the darkwood doors of the house. I try to yank away, but she’s deceptively strong. She leads me to a drawing room, plopping me down on a slate-gray sofa. She sits opposite me in a high-backed chair, posture regal.
“You will not offer aid to the hired help.”
“Your hired help are ancient!” I protest. “You can’t make them haul stuff that heavy!”
“Reginall is more than capable of hard labor.”
“That doesn’t mean you can—”
“My household is not the royal court,” she says fluidly. “I employ wages, freedoms. The royal court holds no such tradition—their servants are to be seen and not heard, in every sense. What if you help, and a noble sees? They might say that servant is incapable of doing their job. They’ll be let go, to the streets of this cruel city, shunned by all other employers because of an incompetence rumor.”
“That’s…mad.” My stomach churns, a tornado nestled in a hurricane. Y’shennria fixes me with her impassive hazel stare.
“That is how Vetris turns, and how you will turn. You will train with me in this room every day until sundown. Breakfast is at seven sharp. Cake is at noon, and we take dinner at eight. You will dress in one of the garments provided for all three occasions.”
“Three different—but that’s absurd!”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Your room is up the stairs, fourth door on the left. Meet me in this room tomorrow morning at seven thirty. Any later, and we will have problems. Is that clear?”