Chapter 3

Elowen's POV

I stood with my palm flat against the door and made myself listen to my own breathing instead of the sounds coming through the wood, because I had already heard more than enough, and there was nothing in the world I wanted less than to hear the rest.

It was not the first time.

That was the thing about that room, and about Katla, who had held the narrow bed by the window since long before anyone had thought to give me the pallet at the foot of it.

Katla was nineteen and handsome in the soft, well-fed way of a girl who had never once been told no, and she went through the men of the keep the way a kitchen goes through salt.

I had learned to smell them coming.

I coughed, twice, quietly, and set the bucket down on the flagstones hard enough to ring. It was the politest thing I could think to do.

I did not want to see them. I did not want them to know I had heard.

I wanted the door to open, and Katla to laugh at me for a fool, and the two of us to go on pretending for the rest of our lives that nothing had happened at all.

The rhythm inside stopped for a moment—just long enough for me to hear a whispered exchange, low and breathless—and then the man's voice came through the door, rough with something that was not quite laughter.

"Gods, Katla. Don't stop now. You were doing so well."

A soft thump followed, then the unmistakable creak of the narrow bed.

"Shut up," Katla whispered, though there was laughter in her voice. "Unless you want the whole damn room to know what you're doing."

"Let them hear."

"You filthy bastard."

"Only when it comes to you."

Another muffled laugh came from inside, followed by a sharper creak of the bed. Katla let out a breathless little sound, then muttered something I could not make out.

"That's it," the man murmured. "Forget the door. Forget who's outside."

I stared at the stone floor, wishing very badly that it would open up and swallow me.

Katla laughed from the other side of it, high and pleased. "Oh, she won't go anywhere. She never does. Isn't that right, Motley?"

The door did not open. Her voice came through it instead, lazy and warm and entirely sure of itself.

"Stay put, little beast-pit girl. This is an education you're getting for free."

"I wasn't—" My own voice came out too high, and I hated it. "I wasn't listening. I only wanted my room."

"My room," she said, drawing it out. "It's my room, and you're standing outside it like a dog in the rain, and I'm telling you, you ought to be grateful. A face like yours—this is the closest you'll ever get. So stand there. Have a listen. It's the only bit of it you're ever going to have."

The man laughed, low and easy, and heat crept from my cheeks to the tips of my ears. I wished, with a violence that startled me, that I were anywhere else in the world.

The denial was already in my mouth—that I had not been eavesdropping, that I had only come back to my room, that I had not meant to hear a single thing.

But the words caught in my throat. What good would explaining do? Katla would only laugh harder. The more I tried to defend myself, the more pleased she would be with herself.

So I lowered my head and pretended I had not heard her.

For a moment, I considered taking my bucket and waiting somewhere else. The kitchen, perhaps. Or the corridor by the servants' stairwell. Anywhere would be better than standing outside that door, with every sound from inside reminding me that I had nowhere else to go.

I tightened my fingers around the handle and shifted my weight, unsure whether to go or stay.

So I stayed where I was and counted the cracks between my boots, and told myself that being cold and tired was cheaper than being laughed at.

And then the housekeeper's voice was inside my skull.

It came the way a Mind Link always comes—not sound, but pressure, a hand closing on the back of the neck from the inside—and Mistress Aud's voice was cold and quick and gave nothing away.

All maids between eighteen and twenty years, to the great hall, at once.

No explanation, and no invitation to ask for one.

Inside the room, Katla swore. The mattress groaned, feet hit the floor, and the door was flung open so hard it bounced on its hinges—and she came out with her laces half-done and her braid coming down and her mouth curled with irritation, and she drove her shoulder into mine as she passed.

I caught myself on the wall, and the bucket rocked and slopped onto the stones.

"Gods' teeth," she said. "What does Aud want now? It's the middle of the night."

I wiped my hands on my apron, smoothing the front of my shift where the damp had soaked through, and forced my shoulders down.

"Go quickly. The lady Beatrice has been in a temper all day. If we're late, she'll take it out on whoever's nearest."

She looked at me then, up and down, and her mouth did something sour. "You'd know. You'd know all about her temper. She has to look at your face every day—of course she's screaming."

I said nothing more. I simply ducked my head and followed Katla down the corridor, keeping a few steps behind her.

The other maids were already gathering when we reached the great hall. I slipped in with them, trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible.

The first thing I noticed was the smell.

Blood.

I was more sensitive to it than most people. Eleven years in the execution pit had taught me the difference between fresh blood and the stench of rotting flesh. I knew the sharp, metallic scent of a fresh wound, the heavier smell of blood left to dry, and the sickening sweetness that came when blood mixed with decaying meat.

This one was fresh.