Page 23

‘Don’t play with your food.’ Knife’s gnashing voice snakes into my mind, and instinct has my shoulders stiffen, as though the little cretin is really here and prepared to whack me on the shins with a wooden spoon. ‘Or it might bite you right back.’

Thanks to Knife, I lived so much of my youngling years in fear of my meals coming to life and attacking me.

But the brownie isn’t here to stir old anxieties in me. This kitchen is safe from him and his utensil attacks. There is only Dare to my right and some slaves clanging pots to my left.

I take a tentative step through the archway. My gaze sticks to the defined muscles of Dare’s back, unmoving.

His attention seems drawn away to another world.

Despite that his sharp hearing will have picked up on my soft steps, my heartbeat, my scent, Dare gives no acknowledgement.

His stare is lifted, his profile set with concentration.

The gold flakes of his iris flicker like lights of their own. His stare is aimed at the small rectangular window tucked up against the ceiling, the window that overlooks the ground of the street above.

All I see from this angle are some gleams of glowjars out there, and a single set of polished boots that stalk by at a brisk, determined pace.

Dare watches the boots pass. His mouth flattens into a firm, focused line. Still, he doesn’t acknowledge my approach.

No words of greeting or snarky glances my way. All traces of the previous phase’s humour have evaporated.

He lifts the half-eaten apple to his sharp bite.

“I’m not the only early riser, then?” My voice is a mumble, as unsure as I am of myself.

“Oh!” There’s a clang that shudders from the other side of the kitchens.

I take another step and look around the wall at the house slaves.

Two humans in beige dresses, those poufy skirts and corsets I loathe, are tending to a dozen pans heating on the stove. The slave with freckles and red hair turns to me, eyes wide, and rubs her greasy hands down her apron.

“Miss,” she starts and bustles for me, her skirt rustling over the stone floor. “Breakfast will be served shortly in the dining hall, but if you are hungry now—”

I shake my head. “Coffee?”

“Yes, miss, right away.” She bows her head and, with a lift of her hand, gestures to the rustic table that Dare is perched on.

I wander over to him, but falter halfway.

I turn back to the slave, a question burrowed into my face. Am I to join her? To serve my time as a slave meant for these soot-stained stone walls?

She misreads my doubt.

“Tris,” she introduces herself with another bow and flushed cheeks. But I know her name, because the first time I was in this home, Melantha said it when she addressed her.

“Should I…” I start, but my words falter as my frown deepens. “Am I meant to be down here? Should I be… helping?”

Slavery is my position here, after all.

Daxeel might expect me to be preparing breakfast in those ghastly dresses. No, he wouldn’t force me to wear that. He prefers my racy fashions, the fashions of the Light Court and the Queen’s Court, not those courts further out from the heart of Licht, where bell dresses and frilly gowns are the epitome of style.

“No, miss.” Tris shakes her head only slightly, but it’s enough to have a strand of burnt-copper hair tucked behind her ear shift and fall into her face. She’s sort of pretty, I think. But the sort of pretty that one might overlook in passing on the street, and only really notice when face-to-face.

Before I can ask what I’m to do, Dare steals my attention.

I whirl around as he chucks the apple core over his shoulder—and it lands with a rattle in a tin can.

“Daxeel will give you any orders he has,” Dare says with the strain of a contained yawn. “He’s the only one who can command you.”