Chapter 3
Lying naked on the floor, Senar was being whipped by a white-haired old man. She held an apple between her teeth, but she must have been struck too hard, because it dropped from her mouth. I will never forget the look she gave the old man when she turned back to him.
Her wide eyes were filled with terror. It was a kind I had never seen before.
Seeing the old man toss the whip aside and step toward her, I spun right around and ran. I thought Senar might have caught sight of me. Soon enough, a muffled scream followed closely behind my shadow.
I resented them and cursed them for doing such filthy things without even drawing the curtains. Only much later did I learn that leaving the curtains open was on Mr. Vernon’s orders.
Though I currently lived with a demon preparing to return to hell, I did not envy Senar like the other women did.
After that night, even whenever I saw Senar step outside as if to flaunt herself—fanned by a maid while watching the women work, or snapping at the maid who knelt by her chair massaging her legs—the only thing that came to mind was the red whip marks striped across her pale hips.
Along with those terror-stricken eyes.
Arriving home, I lightly rinsed the laundry and hung it on the line. The sun was good, so it would dry quickly.
The house was quiet. As it always was. I had long grown used to this lingering silence.
Marie’s thick, bawdy voice echoed in my head, making my hands pause as I shook out a piece of laundry.
I already knew. Ever since I had my first bleed last year, my body had been changing little by little. My flat chest had swelled, and curves formed connecting my waist to my hips.
Whenever I went out to the market, more and more men would throw cheap jokes my way, and their eyes never failed to brush over the swells beneath my clothes.
A heroine of social mobility. An easy way through the world.
I gave a snort.
Unless you were born a noble, life in this world was never easy. It was only ever a matter of choosing which kind of pain to endure.
For now, washing filthy diapers was certainly better than getting whipped across the rear and crawling like a dog.
Nodding to myself, I wiped my hands on my skirt and headed for Mrs. Vino’s room.
A foul stench drifted from her room the moment you got near it. Mrs. Allmon scolded me constantly to do something about the smell, but that was far beyond my power.
The reason I never said that getting rid of Mrs. Vino would get rid of the smell was because, through plenty of trial and error—mostly in the form of beatings—I had gained that much sense.
I knocked twice on the door and walked inside to the rhythmic sound of Mrs. Vino’s rough, wheezing breath. I cleared my throat.
Mrs. Vino hadn’t spoken a single word since I was brought here, but sometimes I just asked anyway.
In a way, Mrs. Vino was to me what I was to Laurel: someone who listened in silence.
Stepping closer, I saw thick, dried spit crusted around her mouth. I wetted a handkerchief in the water beside the bed and wiped her face, making the old woman’s withered, wood-like frame shiver. Letting out a faint sigh, I hoped that wasn’t a sign she needed to relieve herself.
Her half-open eyes wandered into empty air. Setting the handkerchief down, I walked over to the wardrobe and pulled open the door. Though I aired it out often, the clothes inside still carried a peculiar mustiness.
I pulled out an ash-gray lace scarf tucked in a corner of the wardrobe and held it up. The edges were worn, but it had no holes and was still usable. Draping it roughly over my head hid both my face and hair. Glancing in the mirror, I nodded and turned back to the old woman.
Leaving her breathing behind, I went back out and picked up my basket. As I recited the shopping list in my head and stepped into the market, a burst of lively energy washed over me.
After finishing the rest of the errands, I stopped to buy butter and milk, only for the milk vendor’s son, Mark, to give me a wink.
He was tall and lanky, probably a year or two older than me. With dark fuzz over his upper lip and a mass of unruly curls, he had recently started trying to talk to me every chance he got.
When I gathered my things without replying as usual, Mark stepped completely out from behind the counter, clearly determined to stick to my side.
Right on cue, a barker yelled at the top of his lungs.
A theater. So even people who weren’t born nobles could live leisurely lives, I thought, quickening my pace—until Mark reached out and touched my basket.
Mark grinned, his eyes brightening as if simply hearing my voice made him happy. Unable to think of an excuse, I hesitated, then pointed to the temple on the left side of the town square.
While he stood looking bewildered, I slipped into the crowd. Glancing back, I was startled to see Mark following me with a look of determination, which spurred me to rush toward the temple.
Until a few days ago, he would leave me alone if I turned him down or stayed silent, but today he seemed dead set on it.
I ran up the short flight of stone steps and pushed the temple doors open. A quiet, remarkably pristine scent drifted faintly through the air.
It was my first time stepping inside a temple. As I looked around the surprisingly vast interior, Mark’s voice called from behind.
Frowning as I searched for a back door or somewhere to hide, my eyes caught a man opening the door of what looked like a wooden box.
I had heard of this. A place where you confess your sins to the gods and repent.
With his hat pulled low, he brushed past me. He was dressed in remarkably fine clothes. Hearing what sounded like Mark’s approaching footsteps, I slipped into the box without a second thought.
As I caught my breath, I heard Mark muttering something outside. Still, he seemed to know temple etiquette, because everything quieted down before long.
The wooden booth quickly filled with the smell of the bread and butter from my basket. I reached up and pulled down the slipping scarf. It was stiflingly hot and utterly useless.
A low voice spoke, making me jump and clutch my basket tightly to my chest. Through a small, latticed window before me, I could make out the silhouette of someone sitting across from me.
So there really is someone who listens. A priest or a monk.
If I didn't say something, he might tell me to leave. Rolling my eyes around in thought, I opened my mouth.
An awkward silence fell. I didn't actually know what the word meant, but I gathered it meant to confess my sins, so I began racking my brain.
I heard the person shift in his seat. A faint sigh was mixed into his voice. It was a voice wrapped in a languid, gentle calm.
Only our voices resonated in the tight space, naturally making me lower my tone. I could tell he paused slightly at my answer.
Only then did the figure, who had been tilting his head downward, look toward me. His face was hidden beneath a black hood, but his vivid green eyes were unmistakable. They gleamed like expensive gems.
His gaze felt somewhat cold yet pierced sharply through me, making me swallow dryly. Sweeping his eyes over my face through the screen, he let out an incredulous breath and shook his head.
At my words, he stared straight at me once more. I heard a soft sigh slip from his lips.
“Simply thinking it isn't a sin. And if you’re just going to imagine things anyway, don’t think about running away—imagine killing them instead. Wouldn’t that feel much more satisfying?”
His languid voice sounded as though he were whispering directly into my ear, making me clench my fists for no reason.
Killing someone was a clear sin, yet he was telling me to imagine that? Was a priest even allowed to say such things?
With an economical motion, the man made the sign of the cross. Checking for any sound outside, I quickly spoke up.
He seemed about to stand, but sat back down. His hood fluttered faintly.
