A wave of mortification and ire sweeps over me, reddening my cheeks. “I’m sorry, my lady. I have not had a chance to wash off the dirt of the road. And I spent last night in the stables.”
Her eyes soften a bit, almost admiringly, and I wonder if it’s my tenacity that she likes. “I’d almost forgotten what a spectacular blush you have,” she remarks, her eyelids dropping to half-mast. It’s not my perseverance, then, that’s sparked her fancy. “Remarkably florid, as if your skin is transparent! So much blood, and so close to the surface. You look almost like a pomegranate.”
I waver, uncertain as to whether this is a compliment. I have no idea what a pomegranate is. “Thank you, my lady?”
The momentary admiration sluices away, replaced by stony resolve. “I fear, however, that your fine skin changes nothing. There is no longer room for you here.” She gestures at her pretty ladies-in-waiting, arrayed all about her like baubles, human ornaments. “As you can see, I am well attended.”
I steel myself, gritting my teeth. “As you say, my lady. But—you asked for me only two days ago. Can circumstances truly have changed so much already?”
She weaves her head languorously back and forth, as if considering, and I am reminded of corn snakes sliding sinuously through grass. “It was a passing whim,” she says airily. “One that you did not seize upon when you had the chance.” Her eyes glimmer with subdued malice, and I abruptly understand that behind the cultivated carelessness, she is rankled by my refusal just as I suspected, maybe even wounded by it. And the hurt of it has made her furious, ready to lash out at me. “So now that door is closed to you, I fear.”
Out of nowhere, tears prickle in my eyes. I have not cried at all, not when I learned of my father’s death nor on the road yesterday, but now I cannot contain my exhaustion, my despair at what will befall my family if I return to them empty-handed.
“It was my father who refused you, my lady, not me. He—he was a greedy man, and wished to wring more money from you. Please understand,” I say, allowing myself to sound as abject as I feel. “I would have come at once, had the choice been mine, for whatever you were willing to spare. And now he is dead, and care of my family falls to me.” Slowly, like a wilting flower, I come to my knees and bow my head. “My lady, please. Give me another chance to prove my devotion. I will do anything, your grace. Whatever you wish of me.”
I wait, head bowed, for so long that my knees begin to ache dully from the cold stone beneath them. Then her low voice comes, on the heels of a long, contemplative sigh. “We shall see about that, I suppose.” My head snaps up, giddy with torrential hope. She has her chin rested on her palm, a languid dark curl slipping over her cheek. Her lips are so red, a deep, flushed ruby, as if she has been biting them hard while I waited for her judgment. “You will begin in the scullery. The pay will be nothing like what it would have been as my maid, of course. A few thaler a month, at most.”
“Of course!” I rush, dizzy with gratitude. Sculls do the grubbiest, most backbreaking work for a pittance, and I realize that this is to be my punishment for defying her. But no matter, because if I am permitted to stay, it means the door is open again. Just a crack, but enough for me to wedge my foot in, begin squeezing my way through to the light beyond. “That’s—that is immensely kind of you, my lady. I swear I will do my best for you.”
She flicks her fingers dismissively, then picks up her needle point, red lips pursing. “You may go,” she says, eyes on her sewing as if I am already gone. “And see that you find no further ways to disappoint me.”
Chapter Six
The Rats and the Maidens
The cellars where the scullions sleep are barely fit for rats. Though, from the flurries of movement I glimpse from the corners of my eyes, this does not dissuade vermin of all persuasions from swarming in the shadows.
I sit on my rickety pallet, brushing out my hair, coarse straw piercing my nightgown and poking into my thighs. The low ceiling above my head reeks of mold and mildew, sweating stone that never dries. I keep my feet drawn up so my bare toes don’t have to touch the slimy, louse-ridden floor. As I tug at the snarls, I find myself awash in sticky misery, second-guessing the choices that have led me here. This place is so foul that it makes our little cottage seem a palace in comparison. How will I ever sleep here, with the damp cold of the underground seeping into my bones, nothing but a ratty, flea-bitten blanket to cover me, no Klara to warm my back?
It’s worse here than in the stables, I think, with a wry twist of amusement. If only I had known how good I had it, with horses for company, I would have enjoyed my last night above ground more.
Amazingly, our accommodations do not seem to faze the other maids. They must be inured already to this ghastly gloom. There are about a dozen of us down here. Around me, everyone else is busy chatting and laughing, trading neck rubs and plaiting each other’s hair. I feel a powerful burst of loneliness at the pleasure they’re taking in the shared company, in these moments of leisure they manage to steal for themselves before they sleep.
The girl on the pallet beside mine notices my wistfulness. She casts me a smile, earnest and dimpled, lending surprising beauty to her sallow face. She gestures gingerly toward my brush, reaching for it.
“I could help you?” she offers timidly. “Your hair is so long, it must be hard to do for yourself.”
“Oh, I would love that,” I reply. “Thank you. I’m Anna.”
“Ilona,” she murmurs back, settling herself behind me on the pallet and taking up my hair. “Goodness, it’s so pale and fine. Like raw silk.”
“Let me feel,” another of the maids demands, overhearing. She tramps over from three pallets down, flopping next to us with such carelessness I’m afraid my pallet might collapse under our weight. I recognize this girl as the ringleader of the room. She’s Krisztina, a brash redhead with an impish, freckled face, startling green eyes, and a riot of hair that springs everywhere like encroaching ivy now that it’s been released from the confines of her braid. I’ve heard her name bandied about, and I see the way the others treat her with deference. As if she’s the self-appointed lady reigning over this murky, underworld domain.
Without asking, she sinks both hands into my hair. “Ooh,” she exclaims. “Fancy. And the color, almost white! Have you Austrian blood, maybe?”
“Krisztina,” Ilona chides gently, casting her a reproving look. “Maybe Anna does not wish to have her hair pawed without permission.”
“You were pawing it readily enough, squeak,” Krisztina shoots back. “And fawning over it to boot. Had I waited a moment longer, you’d have been rubbing it all over your face like a cat rolling in a patch of nip.”
As Ilona blushes so furiously it’s visible even in the gloom, I intervene. “I don’t mind,” I say honestly. It feels so good to be touched, after the past few days I’ve had, almost decadent. “Usually my mother or sister brush my hair before bed. It’s nice to have someone do it here, so far away from home.”
Krisztina’s face softens at that, and she gives my hair a gentle tug. “We all feel the homesickness sometimes,” she says kindly. “Hard not to, in this godforsaken gaol of a cellar. But the smarting will pass, chickadee, I promise. You’ll get accustomed.” She snorts a little, chuckling through her nose. “And if not, you’ll be so bloody tired by day’s end that you’ll collapse before you can spare home more than a thought.”