Sierra
The work today is folding the linens. Thankfully, not scrubbing floors or hauling water or polishing silver until my hands ache—just folding. Stacking. Carrying clean things to clean places. It should feel easy. It doesn’t.
Lena hums as she works beside me, a soft, tuneless sound that rises and falls with the rhythm of her hands. She’s quicker than I am, folding sheets with sharp, practiced flicks, smoothing corners like she’s done this her whole life.
“Relax your shoulders,” she says without looking at me. “You’re bracing like you expect the linens to fight back.”
I force myself to loosen, exhaling slowly. “Force of habit.”
She smiles at that, glancing over. “You always like this? Ready to bolt?”
“Only when I’m awake.” That earns a quiet laugh. It makes me wary.
We work in
