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“Oh, what has that wretched man done to you now?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Let me have a look.” She lifts my skirt, peeking at the raw skin on my back and legs. “Stay here. Give me a moment. I know of something that might help.”
“The lady will notice when you don’t return,” I warn, beckoning toward the hallway behind her, where the lingering voices have grown louder, more confident, more belligerent.
Char chuckles, it’s a comforting sound. “She is quite—preoccupied at the moment. I was on my way to the wine cellar for another bottle of the tawny port. If you would do this old lady a favor and fetch it, I will tend to your wounds.”
She gives me no room to decline as she hobbles out of the room and back down the hallway, past the parlor where the guests enjoy their evening drinks. I chew on my lip, guilty she’s stuck taking care of me on top of her regular house duties
Char might be spared from the worst of the lord’s temper, but she went through much worse than I ever have prior to being purchased by him eighteen years ago—right around the time he purchased me. I was sold into the Trade at age five, simply because I was unfortunate enough to lose my parents in a house fire. Being an orphan is reason enough to get sold like cattle in the Wessex Peninsula. It’s as simple as being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
As much as I despise the lord, there are much less favorable positions I could find myself in. I could’ve been purchased by a brothel in Ryalle, forced to offer my body to nobles for coppers I’d never see. Or worse, sold to the sweltering iron mines of Illynor down south.
That’s where Char came from. The mines.
She suffered severe burns to her leg, rendering her incapable of the labor required in the mines. The lord bought her for a hefty discount—out of greed rather than compassion—but if he hadn’t, she would’ve been killed instead.
A life in the Trade is a short life for many.
Worse, it’s an inescapable life. We bear the mark of Tradelings—a thin, black zigzag tattoo down the left side of our faces, from temple to jaw. Like a dark lightning bolt. It ensures that Tradelings will never be free, even if they escape. And even if we somehow bypassed the village scouts without being seen, we’re stuck in the Wessex Peninsula. We face the Valor Sea to the north, south, and west, and the Barrens to the east—a stretch of inhospitable land with no shelter, no water, and wide open, dusty space, separating the peninsula from the rest of Dovenak. Queen Wyetta’s troops, plus others from various countries in Dovenak, are stationed throughout the Barrens. From what I’ve heard and read, it would be impossible to pass through without being spotted.
Once, when I was younger, I tried to run. I made it to the outskirts of town, having no idea where I was headed, only to discover that the lord has eyes everywhere.
It ended with a broken leg and crushed hope.
The memory of my attempted escape makes me shudder.
Later, Char held me while I cried. “Bide your time, my Alessia,” she said as she stroked my hair, “All broken things heal, and broken girls heal into indestructible women.”
I’ve held onto her words all these years. But I’ve never tried to run again, because things could be worse. They could always be worse.
I oblige Char’s request to grab the port, locating an extra oil lamp from beside the hearth. I wince as I sidestep down the rickety old steps to where the surplus of wine and spirits are stored.
I hold up the lamp, illuminating the. cellar. It’s a dim, cool room made of mismatched stone with a dirt floor. Two walls are lined with racks of bottles—some so old they’ve acquired a layer of thick dust. A couple of whiskey barrels sit around the space, with potent liquor aging and soaking within the wood.
“You know why they’re called spirits, don’tcha?” A low voice says. I gasp, but before I can whirl around, a warm, muscular body presses against me from behind. Soft lips find my neck, and I squirm—out of embarrassment more than desire. His breath caresses my ear as he whispers, “because they bring out a man’s true spirit.”
He releases me so I can face him.
I hold up the lamp and he recoils from the light, giving me a charming grin. His pupils are blown out and the top of shirt is unbuttoned near the collar. His fingers grip my skirts, tugging the fabric up. I swat him away.
“Felix,” I scold, taking in his state of disarray. “How much have you had to drink, you scoundrel?” Clearly enough that my poor state of dress and the sickly smell of beef stew does nothing to dissuade his wily ways. “Sneaking up on me like that!”
“Forgive me, my lady, for the lack of greeting.” He drops to a single knee in a flourish, reaches for my hand, and plants a kiss on the back of it. I eye him warily as he rises. He acts like a gentleman, though the gleam in his eye says he is anything but. “The party above has grown rather stale, and I was in search of something prettier to occupy my time.”
My cheeks flush, and I tuck my hair behind an ear. It’s too easy to fall for Felix’s charms and give in to the temporary distraction.
I met Felix a few years back when the lord hired him as a groundskeeper and stablehand. His father is a close companion of the lord’s, so he often joins them for dinner events and hunting parties. He even has his own living quarters in the stables across the pasture. And unlike me and Char, he is an actual employee. He bears no mark, and he’s listed on the ledgers. He’s afforded true freedoms.
Like eating with the guests tonight.
“I have to get back up there.” I sigh. “The lady is waiting for me.”
His grin grows. “Nilda left with Father, and trust me, they won’t be back tonight.” He steps forward, tracing my jaw.
Lady Nilda might act like a doting wife in the day, but she wastes no time seeking out one of her many illicit lovers to whisk her away when her husband is gone.
