Queen Of The Great Underworld

16.

But I would get lost. I didn’t know the layout, or have access to food, or even have a plan. The other prisoners working throughout the Pit might give me away, too.

“The dragon was a sweet childhood hobby.” Mother shuffled the cards. “Your responsibilities are different now. You can’t always get what you want, but you do have everything you need.”

Except the freedom to make my own choices.

“A dragon is not a need,” Mother said.

“How will it look if I abandon LaLa? Keeping her will demonstrate that I take responsibility for those under my care—even dragons.”

Father nodded faintly. “That’s true, but I’m still not sure . . .”

“I’ll use my influence.” I rushed over the words, desperate. “I’ll do what you want. Just don’t make me give up LaLa.”

Eighteen heavy heartbeats thumped by. “Fine,” Mother said. “As long as you remember your responsibilities to Anabel, you can keep the dragon.”

That had been . . . easy.

And then it hit me. I hadn’t won. The threat against LaLa had never been real. Mother just wanted a way to persuade me to do what she wanted.

I’d thought I’d been standing up for myself, but I hadn’t.

I’d done exactly what Mother had expected.

I FINISHED CLEANING THE MESS HALL BY LUNCH.

Barely.

With Tirta’s advice in mind, I started at the top and mopped the ceiling. It was possibly the most awkward, messy, and uncomfortable thing I’d ever done, but I went across all forty-five panels one at a time, wedging the mop into crevices to scrub off smoke stains. Dirty water dripped onto my outstretched arms and face and shoulders.

From there I scrubbed the walls, then moved on to the tables and chairs and lights. I worked as thoroughly as possible, especially when I got to the floor. The stains were too much for the mop alone, so I was forced to my hands and knees with a brush, scrubbing until the dirt loosened. The last thing I needed was to miss something and have to do it over again—or worse, for Sarannai to notice. How had maids at home managed such tasks?

My arms and legs trembled by the time Sarannai returned, a frown creasing her face. Her boots tapped the floor as she inspected my work, checking the undersides of the tables, just as Tirta had predicted.

“A fair job,” Sarannai said at last. “Wash yourself and eat lunch when the others come in. Then I’ll give you another room.”

Another room. Great.

But when she went to the food window for her own lunch, I scrambled to the tap where I’d been filling and emptying my bucket all morning. When I’d realized there was running water here, it had taken every drop of my will not to throw my whole body under the stream.

Now, I indulged in a moment of spreading soap across my hands and arms, reveling in the simple pleasure of removing grime from my skin. Unlike the jasmine-and citrus-scented soaps from home, this one stank like animal fat, but it was so much better than nothing.

It was over too soon. Other prisoners began to come in, two and three at a time. No one spoke as they shoveled food into their mouths. The hall echoed with the sounds of chewing and grunting and burping. The ones who’d been leering earlier ignored me now, no longer interested or intrigued. For that, I was glad my anonymity was one of the few things I had here, and I wanted to keep it.

When lunch was finished, seventeen prisoners lined up to get orders from Sarannai. I carried my empty tray to the window and kept my voice low as Tirta acknowledged me with a nod. “I had a dress earlier,” I said.

“I saw.”

“I want to keep it.” It was filthy, but it was mine.

Tirta glanced toward the pile of folded clothes I’d left on a table earlier. A sliver of silk peeked out. “I’ll hide it back here. Get it after dinner.”

I had to take the chance that she truly wanted to be my friend. “I want to wrap my hair,” I whispered. The line for Sarannai was down to five; she barked more and more orders, sending others scurrying from the mess hall. I had to hurry. “Cut a square of silk for yourself if you want.”

Tirta’s eyes lit. “I will.”

Just as the last person finished getting instructions from Sarannai, I rushed into line.

BY DINNERTIME, MY whole body hurt and my hands burned from gripping the mop handle and soapy rags. But I finished my work and returned to the mess hall. Tirta offered a faint nod as I took my tray, and when I glanced toward the pile of clothes, the dress was gone. She’d kept her word. Or stolen my dress.

Just as I sat down to eat, Yarrow appeared in the doorway.

My chest tightened. I’d spent all day counting stones and brushstrokes and facets of noorestones, trying to distract myself from the swarm of fears circling my every thought. Not only did my muscles ache from the effort it took to clean a huge stone room, but they shook with the sort of exhaustion that always came when recovering from a panic attack. Even a not-quite attack.

And now, with Yarrow making his way across the mess hall toward me, every hard-won piece of calm threatened to unravel.

I measured my breathing and concentrated on my food. Slimy. Cold. Slightly spoiled. Either Tirta was a terrible cook, or everything she made went to warriors and trainees, and prisoners got leftovers. Still, it was better than what came in the sacks.

Then Yarrow took the chair across from me and leaned his elbows on the table. “Good first day, Fancy?”