‘The castle is well run as a clock. And you are cogs,’ said Malovski as the carriage began to slow. ‘Well oiled and silent. Any squeaks will be ironed out, any cogs not working ripped free.’ She leaned forward, her red mouth opening wide to enunciate each word. ‘If you misbehave, your beauty will not save you. I will not save you.’
Save us from what, I thought, though her examinations had given me some idea. I felt exhausted, empty. The fiddleheads were the last we had eaten, and my stomach yawned, though I did not know if I could swallow with my throat so tight, with the churn of nerves wracking my body.
The road levelled. The sound of the horses’ hooves changed, from the dull thud on dusty rock, to the sharp clack of cobbles, and a moment later they were pulled to a halt.
‘Here we are.’
The carriage door opened and Malovski stepped lightly down the wooden steps placed beneath the door. I followed close behind, into a wide cobbled courtyard. Stables were ranged across the boundary wall, and chickens pecked at grain scattered outside a wooden door. There were more buildings, and I wondered if Girtie and the others were in one of them.
‘Out,’ said Malovski. Kizzy didn’t move. I don’t know if she even heard her.
Malovski nodded at the soldier, and he reached into the shadows and pulled my sister by her upper arm. Kizzy tripped on the wooden steps, held aloft by the soldier’s iron grip.
Malovski regarded her coolly. ‘You see those spikes?’
She jerked her chin at the stone wall. There were half a dozen iron spikes set atop it, rusted and about the length of a small child.
‘There are more at the front of the castle. It’s rare that they are empty. Carry on like this, and you’ll have the pleasure of passing your sister if you ever leave the walls.’
I swallowed hard, reassessing the red stains I had taken for rust.
‘And there’s worse, believe me.’ Malovski’s eyes flicked left. I followed her gaze to the wall. What did she mean?
‘This way.’
Malovski’s threat had worked. Kizzy was the first behind her, though I still felt the burn of her anger towards me, like I was a weakness she longed to slough from her skin. Again I thought of Kem and Albu, their freedom a salve to my own circling panic. For them, I had to survive this. We both did.
The wooden door was unlocked. As soon as we passed through the door, heat hit our faces. It was a low passage lit with cheap tallow lamps. I could tell the fat had been poorly rendered, because it smelt of rotten meat, like Captain Vereski’s breath. I scrunched my upper lip against my nose, breathing in soap and stale water.
The smells of the forest were a distant memory, and I scraped some dirt from beneath my fingernails, placed it quickly on my tongue, searching for a taste of home. All that remained was a copper tang of blood and smoke, and I resisted the urge to spit into Malovski’s skirts as we moved through the oppressive corridor, lined with doors.
Ahead came sounds of clattering pans and chattering voices, and the walls were painted red with light from a flickering fire. Kizzy stopped so suddenly I walked into her. I knew she was remembering the last time we had approached flames.
‘Come along,’ Malovski snapped her fingers at us. ‘I have other things to attend to.’
I placed my hand gently on the small of Kizzy’s back. I could feel her trembling through the black fabric, but she carried on walking, the noise and smells of the kitchens growing overpowering even before we turned right through its large double doors.
The room was hot and bright, with low ceilings that pressed down and glistened with grease. A fire roared along the length of one wall, and slaughtered pigs were hung at intervals along it. Their skin was scored and bubbling, and I had to bite my tongue to keep my nausea down. One of the kitchen girls had a large metal spoon and was ladling heaps of butter to baste them as another girl turned their iron spits.
The baster was not skilled, and much of the butter dropped to the flames, sizzling and stinking. I thought of all those hours it would have taken at the churn to make such a big pot of butter, of my friends’ new place in the dairy and their chapped hands, the work wasted with every gesture of the girl’s spoon, and I hated her.
Along the centre of the room, more girls were chopping green onions, steel spoons in their mouths to stop their tears. There were cauldrons over smaller fires, and everything smelled rich and salted.
‘Two new ones, Cook,’ said Malovski. The whole room stilled at the sound of her voice, every woman and girl shrinking into themselves a little, heads determinedly cast down, apart from one woman who stopped chopping and looked up.
Cook was dark as us, and I saw a long scar closing her eyelid, which was shrunken and hollow.
‘A month before they’re in the hall serving,’ said Malovski. ‘Keep them out of trouble.’
Cook ran her remaining eye over us and gave a short nod. I chanced a weak smile as she looked me over, but got none in return.
‘I’ll put them on fish,’ said Cook, but Malovski stayed her with a raised hand.
‘I’ll see them to their task.’
Malovski wove through the kitchen towards the back wall, and we followed, the girls bowing their heads and making way. One, her hands full of sage, flinched as the woman passed, dropping the herbs onto the floor.
‘Idiot girl,’ hissed Malovski, turning and raising her hand to strike. I couldn’t see anyone else beaten that day, so I found a strength I had not summoned for Kizzy, and stepped forward.
‘It was my fault, Mistress. I knocked into her.’
The Settled girl looked sharply up from the floor, her eyes grey as smoke. Her head was fresh shaven, and her neck very pale. That was why the bruises stood so clear upon it, like a necklace of purple petals, too delicate for the brutality that had caused them.
‘Is that so?’ said Malovski.
The grey-eyed girl said nothing to contradict me, and Malovski only cast me an irritated glance before continuing across the kitchen, stopping in front of a wooden table where two Settled girls around our age made room for us.
The table was strewn with gaping fish and translucent bones, and one of the girls was holding a pair of wooden tweezers.
‘These two will show you how it’s done.’ Malovski nodded at them. ‘No knives. I’ll be back in a month, and Saints help you if I have to return sooner.’
She left, the room visibly breathing a sigh of relief as soon as her skirts swished out of sight around the corner. The taller of the girls gave us a hard stare.
‘No knives, eh? What’d you do?’
Kizzy was mute as the gutted fish, so I spoke. ‘Nothing.’
The other girl, whose gaze was more interested than aggressive, raised an eyebrow. ‘Not sure I believe that.’
‘Thought all your sort were good at knives,’ said the first. ‘Or is it just sharpening them?’
‘Our bear’s claws were sharp enough, thank you,’ I snapped, my cheeks warming.
‘Oh, you’re bear dancers.’ The first girl turned away. ‘My mother said they were all witches of low magic.’
‘Better not risk it, then,’ I said.
The second girl laughed throatily and stepped between us. She was a head shorter than either of us and I glared over her. ‘Don’t mind Szilvie, she got her bloods yesterday. She’s cranky.’