Fallen: A Cinderella Story

Blood and Other Humours

Elisabet was assigned to the kitchens this sevennight. She stood over the slanted granite slab table in the butchering room, draining one of the fresh corpses. Out of respect for the slain, the face and loins were covered by snowy linen cloths embroidered for this purpose. Elisabet was an expert bloodletter. She had been the daughter of a butcher family who died in the last plague. Orphaned older than the others, she had already begun to learn the trade.

She hummed as she worked the pump treadle, to maintain the rhythm. The butchers of the area had blood letting songs tailored by species for more efficient draining.

Asha announced her advent with a knock, then a nod and curtsey, which Elisabet duly returned.

“He was a large man. This will take time.”

“It is understood. I am come not to urge haste, but to assist.”

“Stir the blood. It will need to be bottled.”

Asha nodded and tied a black leather apron over her clothes. She took up a wooden paddle and began to stir. The blood was still warm and fresh. Its aroma was familiar and not unpleasant. She watched the viscous, rippling surface as her paddle moved through it and she saw herself reflected redly there. Her reflection gathered and fragmented with each pass of the paddle through the blood. The only sounds were the swish of the paddle, the murmur of the pump, and Elisabet’s song to keep the correct rhythm. It was a peacefully meditative scene of horror.

After some time, the tubing begain to sputter and Elisabet broke off singing. She tapped the pump treadle once or twice more with her foot and nodded. Asha kept stirring as the last drops fell.

Elisabet nodded to her and she raised her paddle, letting the blood run off of it. She tapped it against the side of the vessel then lay the paddle aside. Together, the women hefted the vessel and set it on a table. Asha pulled a crate of empty bottles to her side, then began to fill them from the spout set into the side of the vessel. Later, they would seal the bottles with wax. Elisabet set about cleaning her equipment as Asha filled the bottles. The corpse lay on the granite slab, now drained and with barely more color than the linen draping it.

“Shall I ring for the body snatchers,” asked Asha.

“Yes, do,” came Elisabet’s terse response.

Asha finished filling the last bottle, then set the vessel for washing on her way to the alcove with the bell pulls. She tugged on the pull for the stable and there it was: that feeling of being watched again. She cut her eyes to Elisabet, who seemed oblivious, as she flushed the pump lines with water. Asha shivered and returned to the sink to scrub out the vessel. The weight of the unknown gaze was heavy. She rolled up her sleeves and tied them, careful to keep her tattooed wrist facing down. She looked over her shoulder at Elisabet, busy with her own work, deftly cleaning her tools with admirable thoroughness. Asha stifled a small sigh and reach for the salt and a cut lemon.

The air shifted and a gust of autumn breeze heralded to arrival of the body snatchers. Asha and Elisabet looked up to greet them: two tall, broad-shouldered young men. They nodded silently to the women, who curtseyed in return, then they rolled out a canvas stretcher on the slab next to the body. Together, they rolled the body onto the canvas. The younger and stockier of the two passed very close to Elisabet— not quite close enough to touch, but close enough that the hem of her skirts brushed against his legs.

The body snatchers heaved the corpse with a small grunt, and carried it out the way they came. Asha and Elisabet hurried ahead of them to hold open the door and receive the embroidered linen. The one who had passed so closely to Elisabet returned after a short while and handed her the cloth. Asha noted that he handed it over in such a way that his small finger trailed along the side of her hand. The women curtseyed and closed the door. As they turned inward once more, Elisabet’s cheeks held a slight flush. Asha said nothing, and set about convincing herself she had seen nothing. Elisabet knew as well as she that it was forbidden; there was nothing to say. Beyond the door, in the yard, they could hear the crack of the whip and the clatter of the cart wheels over the cobblestone. Elisabet’s face had resumed its normal color as she returned to her tasks.

With the blood bottled and the tools cleaned and stowed, and the corpse gone to its grave, Asha rang for Cook. Cook must have been hovering nearby, for she came bustling in, tying on an apron as she came. Asha and Elisabet curtseyed and removed their leather aprons, carefully checking them for splatter before wiping them down and storing them on their pegs in the slaughtering room. Their duties completed, the women returned to the servants’ quarters upstairs.

Once alone in her room, Asha scrubbed her hands raw in the basin. The blood appealed to her, even as it repulsed her. Of late, it appealed far more, which was perhaps unsurprising, as most of her life had been spent among the Nightfallen. She idly wondered if the appeal would lessen if the body on the granite slab was someone she had known. Then again, did she really know anyone well enough to mourn them? She considered who among the other servants might be named “friend” and came up rather short. Asha frowned. It was not an easy thing to have a friend in a place like this. A subdued camaraderie…perhaps even a joint pride in the service of a great house, but friendship?

Asha smoothed her skirts and sat by a window with her mending basket. The final meal of the day would be at seven bells. She could easily make some repairs until then, and laid out her sewing things. She felt that unseen gaze settle over her again. Was she imagining it? And yet, Nena had confirmed in her subtle way that she had sensed it too. So why; why was someone watching them? “Why” was not precise enough; it was a great house of the Nightfallen, and the intrigues of that ilk were infamous. The better question might be whether someone was spying because they felt the house of Mistress was a threat OR whether they spying to seek out a suitable alliance. And yet, the house wards were intact. It made no sense; anyone with that sort of power hardly needed alliance. Was it, then, a threat?

Asha sighed. In her distraction, she missed the cloth and pierced her finger. She looked down in surprise. The blood welled up in a bright, red bead on her fingertip. Without thinking, she placed her finger in her mouth and sucked at the blood. The familiar iron tang exploded on her tongue. That seemed to pique the interest of the watcher, and she flooded with warmth. She would need to stop bleeding before she went down to supper. The staff of the house were very careful to never appear before the Nightfallen with an open wound. Menstruation required relocation to a small, offsite cottage, comfortably furnished for that purpose.

The Nightfallen members of the household would not be in attendance at supper, but the servants’ dining hall was on the main level, off the kitchens. Asha did not serve the box rooms belowstairs, but knew they were close enough to require care. Somewhat shaken, she put her sewing things away and shook out the chemise she had been repairing. At least she finished the work, and hadn’t gotten blood on anything. She hung the chemise on a peg in her cupboard and set about tidying her quarters.

The room was small, but comfortable enough. Before she came to serve this house as a child, she remembered only searing hunger and perennial cold. Anything, no matter how humble, was a step up. The narrow bed was heaped with blankets. There was a simple, unadorned washbasin and mirror, and candle stands with a generous candle budget. Had Asha not been acquainted with the opulence that was the belowstairs world, she might be forgiven for thinking this clean, efficient space was luxury itself.

There was, in truth, not much to tidy up. Asha was paid quarterly, just as the other servants were, but she tended to save her pay, rather than purchase frivolities. She had, up until the present, had precious little use for clothing after her own tastes. The occasional book, and a small budget for remaking her personal gowns when they went out of fashion, were her main expenditures.

In the household, and while on errands for the household, the ladies wore an understated livery of white blouses, long, black skirts (wool in winter, fine cotton in summer) with matching, fitted, black jackets elaborately embroidered with the house sigil. For special events, they wore gowns of watered silk which exposed their decolletage and arms. Mistress flaunted her wealth and restraint at these soirees with the subtle message that none fed from her household staff; they were pure. Only Nena and the oldest household staff were permitted more demure gowns.

Asha turned in a slow circle, ensuring everything was to her standards. Satisfied that it was, she picked up a book of poetry and sat back down by the window. The bells chimed as soon as she flipped to the page she wanted. With a small sigh, she slipped a tattered ribbon between the pages, placed the book back on its shelf, and swept from the room, following her nose to the dining hall.