Within These Wicked Walls(3)

I took a deep breath, shoving the memory back.

Count your blessings, Andi. You’re safe.

“Thank you,” I said, and stepped into the room.

“Dinner will be served in an hour,” she said, looking over my simple, sandy dress. “I trust you have something better to change into?”

I hid my cringe by pretending to adjust my bag. Stupid, frantic merchant.

She let out a short sound, like a scoff, and left me alone without another word.





CHAPTER 2


The barrel of water in the corner of the room must have been recently filled, because I broke the thin layer of ice easily with the bottom of a bucket and filled it, hanging it over the fire to heat. Then I found a rag in the dresser by the bed and scrubbed myself until the water went from scalding to chilled. I hadn’t been clean in so long, I nearly forgot there was skin underneath all the grit. I used some of the tiny bit of butter I’d bartered for last week to moisturize my loose curls and dark, ruddy skin, then braided my hair in two neat French braids down my shoulders. I didn’t have anything better to change into, but I did have a dress that hadn’t been in the sand and sweat. It would have to do.

There was a large full-length mirror, and I hadn’t looked at myself in so long I felt a bit distressed at seeing my reflection. There was no improving my face—my lips seemed too big for my tiny chin, which seemed too round for my thin nose, which would never settle evenly between my not-quite-round-not-quite-high cheekbones. And worst of all, the slightly raised scar on my face, an ugly nick in my top lip that ran all the way up my cheek. Not the purposeful show of beauty from scarification, but the aftermath of a brutal mistake on display.

I looked like a homely, misshapen doll. But at least I didn’t look homeless. The last thing I wanted was Mr. Rochester to know he’d pulled me directly from the street.

If there was a clock in the room, I didn’t bother looking for it—years of being charged by the hour for my work, even if most of it had just been tagging along with Jember, had helped me develop an internal one that worked just as well. So, at ten minutes to the hour I headed downstairs to find the dining room.

There were fireplaces blazing in every room, but otherwise there was no light or warmth. I’d never seen a house decorated so colorfully lack so much … color. There were rugs and pillows, baskets and tapestries, woven in traditional green, yellow, and red. But they were all lifeless, dulled by the sun and age. All that beautiful handmade craftsmanship was paired with walls and furniture that seemed like they were from another world. Too much gold and filigree and embellishments, excessively crowded patterns that left little room for the design to breathe. Not to mention, everything seemed a bit, well, off. A tapestry wasn’t on the wall straight, a couple rugs weren’t centered, furniture sat in strange places … whomever had decorated didn’t care at all about the order and aesthetic of the rooms.

The main hall was one large square, and when I finished wandering and made it to the other side of the stairs Peggy and three others were standing at the bottom, whispering. One of the people—an older man with a mustache—saw me coming and nudged Peggy, prompting the other three to look at me. For a split second I bristled, feeling for the knife under my dress, but logic quickly calmed me down. They were standing with Peggy, which meant they probably worked here, same as me.

I could tell instantly that Peggy was the only one who didn’t do any work out of doors, because her face was the color of concrete while the faces of the other three were rosy from the sun. Never in my life had I seen so many white people in one place. We hadn’t been colonized like other countries, so my experience was limited to the occasional missionary or activist, who were all nice enough.

But I supposed it made sense. No local would dare step foot in a house so saturated by the Evil Eye. Hiring foreigners who were unfamiliar with the curse guaranteed employees would stay, as long as they were paid well.

“This is Andromeda,” Peggy said. “The debtera.”

“You finally picked the right one.” The middle-aged man with grey on the temples of his black hair slapped Peggy on the back—maybe too hard, because she scowled and shooed at him.

“You say that every single time, Tom.” The woman with bright orange hair and bizarrely blue eyes frowned at me. “She can’t be older than sixteen.”

“Yes, but she’s seen war,” he said, pointing to my scar. I fought the urge to cover it with my hand.

I’d thought Peggy just preferred her clothing to match her grim demeanor, but the three others wore that same dark grey to match the bleak walls. To be fair, it was probably less a fashion choice and more a matter of dyeing all the wool in one barrel. Even so, it was strange how well they matched the house. Like ghosts dressed in shadows.

“This is Tom,” Peggy said. “He takes care of maintenance around the house. Emma here, the two of us share the task of cooking and mending. And Edward”—the old man nodded at me with a small smile, his eyes glistening kindness—“he keeps the horses. We all clean around here.” She gave me a pointed look. “That includes you.”

I was getting paid to cleanse the house of the Evil Eye, not of dirt, but I would argue that point with Mr. Rochester. “Four people taking care of such an enormous house?”

“We’re all that’s left,” Emma said.