‘He’s the Dragon’s man and is to be honoured. Nicholai says the yard is red with slaughtered pigs,’ she said, a strange shiver of delight in her voice.
It was not the only cruelty. The cows were kept pregnant so they would give milk, their calves killed for livers. In the dairy our Traveller sisters made skeins of cheeses. The boys produced yards of soft leather for the noblemen’s boots, feet chapped from treading it in the icy storehouses.
In the kitchens, we bled the carcasses for blood cakes, and went about our work quietly. As the possibility of our having a divining day drew further away, each day brought Boyar Calazan’s visit closer, and our waiting fate as serving girls into sharper reality.
Two weeks into our captivity, we were at our usual stations when Cook came to check on us. She did this less and less, bored I think by Kizzy’s constant requests. But this time, my sister only stared at her. Cook glared back.
‘Don’t even try it, girl.’
Kizzy, for once, was silent. She reached into her pocket and drew out Old Charani’s purple cloth. The bloodstains had faded to black, and the colour reminded me of our elderberry curtains. I thought she had truly lost her mind, pulling it out and showing Cook like it meant something.
But, looking at Cook, I saw it did. The old woman had gone almost as pale as a Settled. She reached up, to her white curls. And then I saw it: a purple cloth, edged with yellow stitching, holding her hair off her face. An exact match for the one held in Kizzy’s hand.
Cook grasped at Kizzy. ‘Where did you get that?’
Dot and Szilvie were looking at us, and Cook seemed to collect herself. She snapped her fingers at them. ‘Onions. Now.’
They skulked away.
‘I got it from our Seer,’ said Kizzy, her eyes shining.
‘Charani?’ The name in Cook’s mouth was like a bolt of lightning through my body: I felt every hair on my arms stand on end. ‘Charani is your Seer?’
‘Was.’
‘Is she—’
Kizzy nodded, and Cook pressed her hand hard to her mouth. I saw her throat constrict with swallowed sobs. Others were noticing our exchange, Dot and Szilvie whispering with the girls at the chopping table, and I moved to block their view.
Cook dropped her hand, took two deep breaths. ‘I have turned my mind from this long enough.’ She regained her usual colour, though her eyes still shone. ‘Your divining day. Is it too late?’
Kizzy shook her head.
‘Tonight,’ said Cook, already turning from us, the old steeliness returning to her voice. ‘Come to the kitchens tonight.’
Later, in our shared room, Kizzy and I lay facing each other in the darkness. The room was soon silent, the smells of the kitchen clinging to our clothes. For the first weeks I did not think I would be able to sleep in such a place. In the forest, the sound of Albu snoring outside was like a lullaby, and the woods whispered with breezes or rang out with wolfsong. But an exhausted body will take what rest it can.
I could just make out my sister’s eyes, unblinking. I wanted to press myself against her, for comfort as much as warmth, but she was coiled with a taut energy. After maybe half an hour, her head twitched, and she turned her ear towards the door, which she’d propped ajar with her boot.
She gave me a nod and started to rise before I’d even made out the sounds of soft footsteps in the stone corridor. No one knocked, but a shadow crossed the thin slice of light.
I followed Kizzy through the door, and there was Cook, her face set in a frown. She gestured for us to follow her, and we kept close as she led us back to the kitchen, closing the heavy wooden doors behind. They barely squeaked, so coated were their hinges with grease spat from the fire.
‘We can speak freely in here,’ she said. ‘The walls are thick.’
She pulled up a stool and sat at the table where we had first seen her chopping onions.
She seemed smaller now the space was empty and she didn’t have her workers buzzing about her like bees attending to their queen. Her remaining eye raked over us both, settling on Kizzy.
‘Charani was my younger sister. I had three, all of us Seers, but she was the most talented. Did she not see it coming?’ Grief shook her voice. ‘But then, I did not see the path that brought me here.’
‘You parted?’ I said. I somehow thought Traveller sisters would stay together, no matter what.
‘I left, two days after my divining day. I knew I would never make my mark under her shadow. She was already the favourite.’ An old bitterness rose in her voice, and she took a deep steadying breath. ‘I was young and wanted to make my own way. My divining said my place was in the camp, and I wanted to prove it wrong.’ She eyed us beadily. ‘I would not place too much importance on such things. In fact, it really would be best if you did as I said that first day.’
‘Forget?’ said Kizzy, taking the word from my mouth. ‘Impossible.’
Cook barked a laugh. ‘You’re a fierce one. That makes it harder to live this life.’ She pointed to her eye. ‘Let me assure you, I know.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Kizzy, and there was no tremble in her voice, no doubt. ‘The month is nearly done, and we cannot go on without knowing our path.’
She began unwrapping her bandages. Over time, the honey had worked some of its magic: her skin had stopped weeping, but it was still peeling.
Cook tutted. ‘Did they do that?’
‘No,’ said Kizzy. ‘I did it myself.’
She did not explain how – that she had been trying to reach MamÄ in her burning wagon – and Cook did not ask.
‘It’s been a long time since I read a palm.’
‘But you can,’ said Kizzy. It was not a question. ‘I felt it that first day, when you touched me.’
Cook spread her hands. Again, with their callouses and curled fingers, they reminded me so strongly of Old Charani’s I wanted to weep. ‘Seeing it doesn’t make it true.’
‘But you are reading our fate—’
‘Fates can change, child.’ Cook gestured around us, as if to add, as you can see.
‘I know how it works. And I’m not a child any more,’ said Kizzy. ‘We’re seventeen.’
‘Don’t be in too much of a hurry to grow up. They’ll take it from you soon enough.’
‘Better I do it myself than let them.’
Cook laughed again, but softer, and her eye was sadder. ‘There’s little choice, child.’
‘My name is Kisaiya,’ said Kizzy. ‘What is yours, Aunty?’
‘My name does not matter,’ said Cook. ‘In time, yours will not either.’
Kizzy held out her palm. ‘Tell me what I am. Tell me what could be.’
Cook looked at her a long moment, and then took it. There was the same jolt, as though Kizzy’s burnt skin still held the heat of the flames. Cook brought her eye down level with Kizzy’s palm, gently running her finger along the lines, scored too deep for the fire to erase. Kizzy winced.
‘You’re good with bears. And birds, and cats. All animals. You would be an ursar, or animal healer.’
A smile split Kizzy’s face as she looked at me, like sunlight piercing clouds. ‘I told you.’
‘Shame all that will be good for here is butchering. Now, let’s see.’ Cook peered closer, turning Kizzy’s raw hand this way and that. ‘No husband, here. No children.’