The Darkening Still

By Liam Hays

The bond of blood is not easily broken. Under the streets of Felvishar sleeps a network of ruins that hold secrets of unspeakable catastrophe. Brought into her estranged father's service against her will, Fenitheer struggles for independence while becoming deeply enmeshed in enigmas beneath the city that will ultimately claim her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liam Hays
• Release date: Aug 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301776818

Liam Hays

Presently residing near Chicago, Liam Hays has spent what some claim to be an unhealthy amount of time daydreaming. While this may be true, it didn't stop him from earning a degree in English, which was utterly useless in becoming a software engineer. Liam enjoys rock climbing and singing in a local choir, though not at the same time.

Book preview

The Darkening Still

First novel of the

Aperture Series

Copyright 2013 Liam Hays

Cover design by Julian Jackson

Smashwords Edition

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Prologue

Fear is a sinister oubliette, reducing us to savages struggling for survival in a context we have no hope of understanding. I was born into that cage, and soon after the death of my warden Marius, a sea merchant and the husband of my adulterous mother, unwillingly released from it. Eventually, when not pressed by fear, I began to awaken. That is where this story begins, within the river city of Felvishar, and the sprawl of shadow beneath it. Spindledar, as it came to be called, was an ancient place, a massive labyrinth of snaking tunnels, caverns, halls and ever extending mines, built by a people whose bones had long turned to ash. A thousand years later, Felvishar would be built upon its ruins.

It’s only now that we understand the cataclysm that destroyed this civilization. It’s only now that we begin to understand the cataclysm that will destroy our own.

If Lord Bellatine permits, it would be my wish to commission an editor to mend whatever aesthetic transgressions I commit to paper. Also, I have added some material that is not of my direct observation, but of those I have been affected by. I have recorded their stories as accurately as they remember them, however cannot guarantee veracity. For as I await my own execution, I need prove nothing to anyone, the least of whom Bellatine.

Chapter 1

It was raining. The horse I straddled was barely more than a mule, but warm all the same. I leaned forward, tucked my arms against its mottled brown coat and hid my face from the large droplets that pummeled my back in the warm summer air, dribbled off my mouth and nose and left their taste on my lips, the kiss of my goddess.

The surrounding marsh stretched for miles around, a marriage of water and earth, a sea of cattails that swayed and heaved with the storm. The narrow road was little more than raised mud, ever trying to diffuse back into the soft mire from which it came, the unceasing waters thrown down from the brooding sky assimilating our path into the unforgiving quick.

I turned my head and peered through the veils of precipitation to see him riding ahead, his back straight and tall, shoulders immense. He hadn’t spoken to me since Portshire. He talked about me, he talked away from me, he talked around me, but he wouldn’t talk to me.

I fell asleep from exhaustion and did not wake until we were well into Felvishar, a serried jumble of jagged edges, beveled walls. Large buildings leaned over narrow causeways, whetted towers poked at the ashen sky overlooking obsolete battlements and clay rooftops. Shadows blended drearily with angled outcroppings and archways. The streets were consumed with the stench of flotsam welling up from the overflowing sewers, debris washed inland from some river nearby.

My hands were numb, my wrists sore from the ropes that bound them together. My thighs ached from riding for so long. I had never ridden before, and a girl learns to keep her legs together among sailors even at a tender age.

The day was all but done, the streets empty when Carrowyn pulled his horse along mine, a muted silhouette against the colorless world. He leaned over and took my pony’s reins as we sat absorbing the weather. Hard lines crossed his brow. A strong jaw and worn, hazel eyes made him appear much older than he actually was. Somewhere behind us the sky rumbled over the dull thrum of falling water.

This is it, he said. I followed his gaze to a large and unkempt house looming in the mist. Dirty. The alabaster had run, leaving streaks of black down the length of the walls. The many windows had been boarded fast, shutters missing altogether. Judging by the great piles of shingles that lay derelict in the surrounding mud, the roof was in poor repair. A lead gutter hung perilously away from the awning, threatening to strike dead any fool standing beneath it. The only thing firmly in place was a small wooden sign affixed to the wall next to the door, painted in course white letters, Duenna.

I tasted the word, rolled it over with my tongue. That single word held all fear and hope, everything that was left of me, and yet I had no idea what it meant. I abhorred its sound, for it represented not my future, but an unwelcome surrogate. It was some other’s choice, not mine, the motivation of which I could not fathom. The one encounter I had with the person responsible for my relocation, a scoundrel by the name of Fleary, did little to provide any comfort or idea of what was to become of me.

Carrowyn slid from his horse, wrapped his hands around my waist and pulled me from mine. My legs ached as they came together, my knees nearly buckled. He slid a small knife between my wrists, cut my bonds and tossed them into the mud at our feet as I rubbed the bruises left in their place.

I didn’t look into his face, but instead stared into the whalebone buttons adorning his overcoat, carved images of fields and sky, plows and oxen. It was a strange accessory for a freebooter, better something for a plainsman.

He said something, but my attention was lost. He grasped my face in his hands. Listen, he said as water dribbled from his chin. His hands were strong, powerful. Had he chosen to, he could have easily taken me, ravaged and tossed me aside, destroyed me with little more effort than it would take to crush an egg in the hand. Such things were not above mercenaries as I understood this man to be. But he did not.

You’re expected. Tell them who you are. But don’t dare run. I’ll be watching.

I nodded and pushed away from his grip, fumbled to find my feet and turned toward the manor. It was a mere fifty feet away, but miles in my head. With each step I took, my hope of freedom was vanquished, snuffed. I glanced over my shoulder. He was indeed watching. I caught his eyes with mine, but he averted them, waved me on with a dismissive gesture. Somewhere in the gloaming, a brawl ensued over the low roar of the weather. There was a struggle. It abruptly ended. I was at the doorstep.

The door was meant to hold two large panes of glass with a half circle crowning them, but the glass had been removed, replaced by large planks of wood. The half-circle was still there, though cracked. And the handle, an ill-fit piece of iron, had replaced what might have once been a fine latch.

I brought my hand up to knock when the door dragged itself open to reveal an ogre of a woman, towering a clear two feet above me with considerable girth and a permanent scowl scratched across her face: the Madam Duenna.

Where are your things? she said, looking me over with the lantern in her off hand. Terrified, I stepped back, out from under the protective awning and into the downpour of water hurtling from the roof. I swear the woman growled, then snatched up my collar, yanked me inside and slammed the door.

Dripping, I stammered, I have no things, and turned out my pockets.

Her massive eyebrows furrowed, seemed to join, and I wondered precisely what things I had been obliged to bring.

We’ll have to make do, she said.

Yes, Miss.

You’re late, by the way. You were to start a week ago, she said and pulled me along by the arm. You begin in the morning. Come down with the rest of them first thing, she said, motioning into the hall with a swing of the lantern. The room was enormous, too vast to be wholly exposed by a single flame. The most notable feature was a massive snaking staircase that ran the length of three walls. In the darkness above hung a chandelier, reflecting light from the lantern in jingling twinkles. Water filtered down from the ceiling and ran across the contours of the fixture before careening onto the sodden marble floor.

Fleary said you’d be well used to it. He better be right or I’ll have my turn on you, she said, pulling me up the stairs. And don’t think because you’re one of his projects you’ll get privilege here.

I stumbled on the hem of my dress and scrambled to pick it up before I lost my footing entirely. Madam?

What? she said, without regarding me.

Young women were often indentured into debauchery against their will, or so I’d heard. I’d seen nothing to discount that possibility here. The words dribbled from my lips, Is this a brothel?

The Madam cackled. No, not yet, she said, but given time, why not?

We reached the top of the staircase and she motioned to a dark hallway, which swayed and breathed with the motion of the lantern in her hand. Second door on the left is yours, she said and pushed me down the hall. The air was sour; it reeked of mold from the sodden rug under our feet. The Madam opened the door and shoved, then closed the door behind me.

It was dark, and I could see little save a dash of clouded sky leaking through the boards nailed across the single window and two dark blotches of color to either side, what I hoped were beds. Carefully stepping toward the one to my left, but I misjudged the distance and tumbled headlong into a mass of bedding. There was something writhing furiously underneath all that. It screamed. I called out as something jabbed me in the side. A foot was planted on my chest and I was ousted, landing in a wet heap on the floor.

This one’s taken, a voice said.

Sorry, I said and felt out the other bed for occupants before collapsing into it.

What’s your name? she asked.

Fen, I said.

My name is Genevieve. Go to sleep.

And I did, lulled by the sound of rain and my own dreary exhaustion.

Memories settled on my slumber that night like gulls roosting on a calm sea. I remembered the smell most of all, that heady dampness so hard to drive out of a ship, the smell of sickness, of death. The predawn peeked through the thin glass of the stern-castle windows. I had not slept in days and it showed in the circles beneath my eyes.

Candles flickered from the bedposts. The light danced over his face and chest, giving the cruel illusion of life in a lifeless body. I watched him, unable anymore to grieve. Timbers shifted against the smooth water, the bilge nested a little deeper into the ocean, a little more entrenched. My fingers were locked around a damp rag full of his sweat. He seemed so old now, fled from himself. His face, weathered and sun-baked, betrayed no sign of the rage that once propelled him. There was no glimmer in his eyes to denote the dogged fierceness with which he set about his life or mine. Mighty hands no longer fisted up. His mouth hung open. And his eyes, once not to be met at any cost, now bulged and blankly stared at the wooden planks above. The first mate put a steady hand on my shoulder and said something, but the words were lost as nausea pulled me to the floor.

A careful weight pressed upon the bed. Are you alright? she asked.

I shot upright, dark sinews of hair pasted across my face. What’s happened? I gasped, clutching damp bedding in fistfuls. My clothes were moist with sweat and acrid rainwater.

Nothing. Everything’s fine, she soothed, but you need to get up.

I looked at her and was caught in her eyes; they fluttered like the wings of an emerald butterfly.

She stood and quickly fastened the black buttons of her burgundy gown. Otherwise her holiness will rouse you out of bed herself. I know from experience, that’s not something you want.

Right. I threw the covers from my legs and tried to stand, but the floor did not sway as I was accustomed to aboard the Seraph. My head spun for the lack of motion. Genevieve reached for a nearby basin and shoved it into my hands as I heaved into it. Her fingertips came down against my temple and cheek, catching the hair before it got in the way. I am so sorry, I managed between retching.

Nothing to be sorry for, she said and pulled my hair into a mass behind my shoulders, twisting it to keep it in place as I recovered. You’re full of sweat. And clammy. I hope yesterday’s weather didn’t give you a cold.

As do I, I said and wiped the spit from my chin with the back of my sleeve. I need a bath.

There’s no time, she said, fastening a sash around her waist.

I lifted my face from the bowl to see her standing before me, prim and well poised. Her auburn hair was pulled away from her shoulders into a bun and held fast by a pair of bodkins. She was tall and majestic, broad shoulders, ample bosom, a smoothly tapered waist that ceased only at the arrival of her hips. You are so pretty, I mumbled under my breath. She looked to me as if she hadn’t understood. I felt embarrassed for the comment, so didn’t repeat it. Instead, I rose to pitch the contents of the basin out the window but stopped as I realized it was boarded shut.

Just leave it on the floor. Lila will take it later. Were you given a set of clothes last night?

No, I said and carefully set the basin on the floor in front of the window.  The sounds of the city leaked in between the planks, which were nailed slipshod over the molding.  I picked the sleep from my eyes and peered through the narrow opening to see carriages rumble by.  There were pedestrians, businessmen in wool tunics and summer cloaks, women in brightly colored gowns and wide-brimmed hats to ward off the sun.  A pair of clappers ambled by, the city watch dressed in red uniforms bearing their noisy twirling staves, that clacked slowly as they passed.

Genevieve said something else about the house, but my attention was lost to the meager view of the outside world. There was a knock at the door, the handle jostled. It creaked open an inch and a woman’s voice spoke plainly from the hall: we were to assemble downstairs in a few minutes.

Thank you Lila, Genevieve called out. She opened a modest wardrobe and extracted a neatly folded gown. This is much too large for you, but it’ll do for now, she said, tossing it over me and pulling down until my head popped out the other side. She had the sash tied off before I could wiggle out of my damp clothes. I pushed my arms through the too-long sleeves, but my hands were dumbly caught in the fabric. Genevieve reached up the sleeves like a crane poking in the water for a fish and pulled my hands through, then rolled the laced cuffs to the appropriate length.

Oh, your hair, she moaned. Grabbing the knotted mass, she twisted it again and again until I yelled. Pulling it forward she wrapped it into a tight ball and secured it with a bodkin from her own head. She took a step back, hands on hips. It’ll do. We’re late.

Genevieve pushed me out the door into the musty hallway where we were joined by a dozen other girls, all of roughly equal age and prim demeanor. My loaned gown dragged terribly and someone behind me was kind enough to step on it, tumbling me to the sodden floor. I watched as the others passed, each casting a downward glance or sneer. Their classically soft features, bright complexions and dignified posture contrasted dramatically with my own sharp lineament, dark hair, weather-worn skin and nearly black eyes. They whispered to each other, calling me a dirty little gypsy, refugee, orphaned urchin. I am not an orphan, I muttered after them as they giggled their way down the stairs.

Genevieve was the last of them to pass. She stopped to offer a hand, which I gratefully took, and we joined the line formed across the dingy marble foyer. I could hear the snickers and feel the sidelong glances of the other girls as we stood there; I would come to dread this little ritual as time went by.

The door to what I later found out to be the dining hall swung open, and the Madam herself entered the room followed by a quiet and humble woman with mousy brown hair, Ms. Lila.

The Madam addressed our line as a ship’s steward would an unruly crew, stern and loud. The topic of her hortatory was merely instructional: reminders about assignments and class schedules. Much to my relief, this was simply a finishing school, not a brothel as I had feared. The house itself was in such disrepair because the Madam saw profit in renovating the older buildings of the city only to sell them again under the name of her school. Women were forbidden to hold land unless widowed past the age of remarriage, but with certain favors were allowed to foster an enterprise.

Eventually the focus of her attention shifted displeasingly, that is to say, upon me. Her derision was fierce and admittedly not altogether displaced. The Madam introduced me by name and remarked that my background had not been conducive to those mannerisms and habits of hygiene common to more respectable women. It was true that I had gone as long as a month without a proper bath, but that was certainly not for lack of want. She continued, saying that I had been deprived of the fundamental rules of etiquette considered perfunctory in houses of high standing or wealth, neither of which I was from.

That truth raised a question: if I had no material means, then what business did I have here?  The thought did not float long in my mind before the Madam provided the answer. I was to assist Ms. Lila in the daily tending of the house in exchange for board and the privilege of attending lessons.

The Madam concluded her address by assigning several of the girls, Genevieve included, to provide lessons in posture, presentation and enunciation. Apparently I had been attributing a back-water drawl to my speech, heralding me as a dock street harlot to any respectable ear.

As the gathering was dismissed, Ms. Lila approached me and said she would provide gowns later that morning, then asked that I stop by the kitchen when I had settled to review a list of daily chores. I gritted my teeth, fuming at this arrangement.

Genevieve’s hand found mine as she felt inclined to provide a proper tour of the old manor. Even with the severely dilapidated state of the outside, the inside was worse by far. The rear of the house was adorned with a large ballroom, which looked out on an untended garden. The windows and part of the wall had been smashed in by the sizable branch of a nearby tree. Only half the lavatories were usable, the root cellar was utterly submerged. A fine home for rats this was.

Genevieve explained that the session had just started two weeks prior, and that the master-builder was actually making good progress. She added that there were indeed rats; a number of them had taken to living in the cistern when months were dry, but whenever it rained they were drowned by the score.

Eventually we found the kitchen, which was remarkably well in order, possessing several work tables, a spice chest, two ovens and a larder under the service stairs, and then another short flight of steps that led down into the submerged cellar.

The laundry was next. Attached to the kitchen, this room housed two enormous cauldrons suspended over ember pits with which I would become intimately acquainted. Attached to the laundry was what served as the house bath. Hidden by a large curtain was a third, smaller cauldron that sat next to a shelf holding towels, salts, soaps and brushes.

Wasting no time, Genevieve snatched up a bucket near the laundry, dipped out some of the hot soapy water, then trundled over to the bath and dumped it in. I took a pail as well, and in short time the cauldron was mostly filled with water. Genevieve returned the bucket to where she found it. Careful, she said as she made for the door. The floors are slick when wet. I’ll see you back in the room.

I thanked her and pulled the curtain around the pot for privacy as she left. I removed Genevieve’s gown and set it neatly aside, then shed my remaining clothes like a serpent sloughing its skin. I had worn the same drab, black dress for at least a week; I only had one other and it, along with what few possessions I had, was still aboard the Seraph. Not that it mattered so much.

Marius, being a merchant, was habitually frugal. And since I brought him no pleasure and no gold, he was generally disinclined to furnish me with anything but the barest of essentials aside from books, and even those were sold at times. What things I had were practical, replaceable. The only possession that truly held my affection was the ship itself: a small two-masted vessel with a wide and shallow draft that allowed it, when the winds were favorable, to out-weather most anything else on the ocean. And even then it wasn’t the ship so much as the name, the Seraph, after my dead mother, who according to Marius, I destroyed by simply being born.

Finally bare, I climbed into the milky water, took up a brush and scrubbed my skin raw with short, merciless strokes before trying to work the knots from my hair, but it was determined to remain a matted tangle of black.

When there was nothing left to scour, I exhaled and sank into the warm water to my chin, grateful for the solitude and the quiet, idly soaking as memories played in my mind, reluctant to let go.

There were times, when I could escape his attention, at night mostly, when I would creep along the gun wale and make my way to the bow. I would climb along the rigging of the foremast and cling to the sturdy wooden frame as the ship would dip and rise, crashing into the water, the spray from the bow shock dousing me thoroughly. From there I could reach a hand down, just one, and touch the wooden and serpentine hair of the bow spirit. This was Seraph to me. This was my mother, without color, features mostly worn away, just the implication of a face, the vagueness of shoulders. She was a liaison between my goddess and me, the go-between, the medium between life and death, between the misery of the now and the hope of providence. She was neither a creature of air nor water, but would traverse them in turn, down into the wash, back up for air, down into the wash. She was my advocate, my attorney, insuring my place beside the fertile Saduje who slept and stirred in the cool forgiving black beneath the waves.

When the water turned cold, I got out of the cauldron and dried myself with one of the linens sitting on the shelf. I eyed my discarded clothes, a dark and threadbare puddle of soiled fabric on the floor. I had no desire to claw back into those rags so I kicked them into a nearby waste bin, wrapped the linen around my shoulders and peeked into the laundry. Across the room, several white under-gowns hung near an open window. As I was alone, I darted across the room, snatched the smallest one from its hook and donned it, then pulled on Genevieve’s gown on as well.

Poking my head into the kitchen, I spied Ms. Lila chopping carrots with angry downward hacks. I tried to sneak past her to the service stairs in the far corner of the room, but she was aware of me nonetheless. Your gowns are in your room, along with some scullery breeches. Put them on. Be back down in a half hour, she said, not bothering to look up from her work. There’s much to be done. Always is.

Yes miss, I replied, resentful of her and the Madam, and trotted up the narrow steps. The hallway on the second floor was empty and quiet. It smelled bitter from the rainwater that soaked the rugs. There was a long yellow stain running the length of the ceiling, dotted here and there by festering gashes, water-rimmed wounds where the plaster had given way, exposing the supporting lathe. I pouted the whole way down, cautiously avoiding walking beneath the holes. I would have stomped were it not for fear of falling through the questionable flooring.

I shoved our door open. It swung back, striking the adjoining wall. Genevieve, who sat on her bed, started, her face flush and wide-eyed. She snapped a book closed and shoved it into the space between her bed and the wall.

What are you doing? I asked.

Nothing, she said and gestured to a set of garments folded over the back of a chair. Lila left you some clothes. Plying her hair with her fingers, she watched as I picked over the bundle. So where are you from? she asked.

I shrugged and gathered a pair of gray breeches and an equally uncharacteristic top from the pile, then retreated behind the door of the wardrobe. Where am I from? I repeated. I had never considered it before, never given thought to what the answer might be.

When I didn’t produce one, Genevieve offered her own. I’m from the north, she said. My father is a landholder in the valley. He sent me here to condition me for marriage. Her voice deepened, and she barked, You won’t find a husband worth his name with manners like a pig! She laughed. The only way he’ll marry me off is by dowry alone, and I’ll make sure it’s a large one.

Pulling on the drab breeches, I muttered, Good for you, though I wasn’t sure why.

Have you been promised to anybody? she asked. Of course you have, why else would you be here if not to be kept out of trouble?

I felt apprehension, a visceral unwillingness to offer anything of myself to her, perhaps threatened by the ease with which she conversed, the fluidity of her parlance and her inquisitiveness, as if she were collecting information to put to some sinister use when chance struck. But as I would better know Genevieve, I would realize her concern for others was genuine and her natural curiosity was nothing more and nothing less than the desire for friendship, a connection to assuage a withering loneliness that plagued her at Duenna. Genevieve, as much as I have always been, was a pariah, never truly accepted into her station. She was too gracious to moor against the petty shores of her contemporaries. She didn’t compete for the affections of others or deride those less fortunate.

But at the time I felt uncomfortable with her openness and so continued to steer the conversation toward more shallow waters. These knots are hopeless, I said, pulling the tangles from my hair. Could I ask you to cut them out?

Of course, she perked. Though I’m pretty daft with shears.

I don’t mind if it’s uneven, I said and gave up, twisting it into one great knot to keep it from my eyes. Anything would be preferable to this mess.

She shrugged. Alright, then. We can get a pair of shears from the kitchen.

I’m done, I announced, tied the crude drawstring into a slipknot and stepped from behind the wardrobe, fully expecting to incur her ridicule. I appeared my station. I was a drudge.

Genevieve looked at me even faced, nodded and said, You look fine.

From the moment I descended the back steps into the kitchen to receive instruction from Lila, the nature of the arrangement was clear. The proposition which Duenna had set forth, that I would be allowed to benefit from the educational ministrations of the house once my other endeavors were complete, was a cruel ploy.

The list of household tasks I was to perform was a river that would never stop flowing. And when all things were complete and set into place, there were always others waiting, unexpected projects, mindless and unimportant duties that were neglected for more urgent things. Never once was I able to complete the daily manifest of chores before sunset, nor shirk them to attend a lecture.

Not that the curriculum particularly interested me. I saw little need for etiquette or lessons in social convention. I would never be accepted as well bred, so why bother? I already knew how to sew, though crudely. I already knew how to read; books were my only friends, my only escape during childhood. I already knew addition, multiplication and angulation from watching Marius navigate and plot, much more than any of these presumptuous snots. However I regarded Marius for his malice, he at least demanded that I be studious.

Even still, I would have rather sat in study than been on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floors, clapping the rugs, shoveling embers under the cauldrons, wringing the laundry, or salting the kitchen tables. Not only was I an indentured servant, but one who worked for no reward save the shelter of a leaky roof and the nourishment of Lila’s kitchen.

But for the moment, I could see little recourse. It was better, after all, than being left to the streets. Though I considered many times simply walking out the kitchen door and never returning, I had no place to go. Every time I thought of it, Carrowyn’s parting admonition came into my head, the way his lips had pursed when he said it. Indeed, there was some strange and unsettling attention on my life.

I was of course being watched, certainly by the Madam and Lila. Lila I didn’t mind. She was a matter-of-fact woman resigned to her duties with calm industry. If I needed help with something such as putting away the linens or properly setting the table, she would, without resentment, stop whatever she was doing and patiently teach me the lesser details of how it should be done. In return, I minded her instruction so that once advised, I needed never ask again. In this way we could work cohesively, though in silence. We rarely talked as neither she nor I were at all convivial, unlike Genevieve.

The Madam’s attentions, however, were fiercer. Every broken dish, every malfolded tablecloth or tarnished bit of silver brought about some painful result, typically at the end of a leather strap she kept with her, or a wooden spoon if the former wasn’t handy. Mind you, she wasn’t capricious in her punishments. She rarely struck from pure malice, but more to insure that once a mistake was made, it was never made again. Unfortunately, I was not particularly adroit, and while I learned early on to be meticulous in my duties, there were times when the occasional teacup would slide off the saucer in my hand. And whether Duenna was present the moment it happened or not, I would dread the rest of the day. For I knew she would take inventory of the silver and porcelain each night before the day was done. If something was misplaced or missing, there was little question in her mind as to why. But even a strap across the shoulder lacked the severity I was accustomed to aboard the Seraph. While I don’t doubt Duenna’s strength, it was nothing compared to the brutality of Marius’ drunken fist. And even as she would bark at me for whatever clumsy travesty was committed, lashing at me with her belt, her temper did little to intimidate me. I had survived much worse than she could deal.

Aside from domestic duties, something else addled my nerves. I dreaded going outside, even to dump a chamber pot into the tanner barrel in the nearby alley, for as soon as I stepped into the open air, I felt cold and unnerved. Only in the garden, shielded from the rest of the city by the high iron fence and interlacing vines, did I not feel that unwelcome attention. I was convinced Carrowyn or Fleary or even my estranged father watched over the house to ensure I did not leave.

And finally, there was Audrey, one of the young women tasked with impressing upon me some basic etiquette to befit a young lady. Aside from Genevieve, none of them had bothered to approach me, and I correctly inferred that none of them would. It was considered poor form to regard the help directly. Audrey discreetly observed my drudgery, peeking from around the corner or doorway. And always I could sense her presence. Some people roam the world nearly unseen, rarely noticed unless they make some effort to be noticed. Audrey, however, had such a temperament that even when silent and skulking, there was a tension around her I could not help but feel. I would mostly ignore her odd stares into the laundry as I churned the milky water with a wooden paddle or her curious gaze as I swept the foyer. But once, when I was bent over a pail and brush scrubbing the marble floor