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“Cleaning,” I mumble.
My cheek barely stings. It registers more as shock than pain, but I keep that to myself.
Reaching for a bowl of stew, unfinished from a guest, the lady tosses the chunky mess out onto the floors.
It lands in a symphony of sloppy, squishy thwacks onto the ground.
“Now you have something to clean. You’re welcome.”
Halfway out of the kitchen she pauses and reaches into her dress pocket for a compact mirror. When I’m sure she’s paying me no attention, I grimace, rise, and dust off my knees. I stride to the far wall and fetch my pail and scrub brush from the cupboard beneath the sink. The pipes have a tendency to freeze in the winter, but at least today water flows. It’s cold though, and my fingers scream at the contact. As the bucket fills, I add lemon-scented soap and watch out of my peripheral as the lady continues to fluff up her hair and line her lips with a ruddy color before finally leaving.
I catch a glimpse of my sorrowful reflection in the darkened window. The girl reflected back at me appears sad, lost. The plain dress she wears hangs off her thin frame. She has a forehead marred with worry-lines, and the ragged tattoo from jaw to chin acts as a sharp reminder of her place in life.
I quickly glance away, not wanting the confirmation of how exhausted and bedraggled I am. How knotted my ash-blonde curls are. How bloodshot and lined with dark half-circles my grey eyes are. I remove the bucket and plop it onto the ground with a splosh.
Glancing around, I inspect where the stew landed. The counters stretch along the wall across from the main entrance, with a variety of cooking apparatuses laid out from dinner. Bits of brown goo drip from the underside of the counter in one section, tainting the cupboards there. So I address that area first, wiping it clean with a rag.
I work the base of the counters, where stone meets wood, and keep a repetitive pattern that causes my shoulders to ache instantly. Most of the stew is contained to one area, so I scrub the liquid from the cracks between floorboards, doing my best to return them to their shining glory.
I’ve barely gotten anything done when the lord enters, scratching his potbelly. My stomach sinks into my bowels as his dark eyes narrow on the mess I’m cleaning.
“What are you doing, Dolly? You vomit on my floors?”
“Lady Nilda, sir,” I croak out. “She—”
“Just finish and get back out there with the guests!” He strides over to me, lifting a riding boot and hovering it over my left hand. My fingers are splayed out on the floor, and if he lowers another centimeter, he’ll crush my hand. I swallow the lump in my throat. “Mind yourself while I’m away.”
My gaze locks onto his shiny black-leather boot. “Yes, sir,” I whisper.
“What was that?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, louder this time to appease him.
He grunts before turning away, his heavy steps pounding out of the kitchen.
Gritting my teeth, I exhale a long breath. My eyes flick up to the textured ceiling above, and I mentally repeat the words that always inflate my hope:
I am not weak.
I am strong.
With as much energy as I can muster, I continue to clean, upholding my duties like a good little Tradeling—the lord’s little Dolly.
two
In the Trade We Will Die
Alessia
By the time I finish scrubbing the kitchen, my fingers are wet and wrinkled, and my knees are red and raw. My bones threaten to collapse, on the verge of disintegration. Curls fall into my face, and I tuck the strands behind my ears, letting my tired arms hang loose at my side after.
“The lord is gone for the evening, my Alessia.” Char limps to my side.
My gaze snaps to the older woman, and a genuine smile overtakes my face.
“Charlotta. There you are.” I want nothing more than to jump up and give her a much needed hug, but I’m sopping wet and covered in grime.
I toss my cleaning rag aside, wincing as I struggle to a stand. My face contorts with pain, but when sorrow fills Char’s eyes, I force another smile at her.
