Page 7 of The House of Quiet

An older woman at the counter looks surprised to see her.

She’s stout in a way Birdie finds reassuring, with a round face and tired eyes.

Her gray hair is tucked into a kerchief, and her sleeves are rolled up to reveal strong forearms covered in flour.

Birdie likes cooks. They’re the busiest person in any house, but generally pleasant, so long as you make their life easier rather than harder.

Birdie takes a deep breath. Her nose wrinkles in distaste as she gets a whiff of the earthy scent instead of bread. How can a smell be soggy and charred at the same time?

The cook doesn’t miss her expression. She points with her chin toward a large stove in the corner.

“I save wood for the ovens,” the cook says. “Means we have to burn peat for warmth, though.” Next to the stove is a door to a small room. Inside, Birdie sees an unmade bed. So that’s where the cook sleeps.

“I’m Birdie,” she says.

“Cook,” the woman answers. Not a name, just a title. Interesting.

“What do you need?” Birdie assumes she’ll be working for the House Wife, but there’s no reason not to ingratiate herself to the cook. Want to know if guests are coming, residents are leaving, or someone’s ill, pregnant, celebrating, not sleeping well? Watch what’s going in and out of the kitchens.

“Any experience cooking or baking?” Cook asks.

“No, but I can follow directions.”

Cook stares at her, eyes heavy and sad but distant, like she’s not really seeing Birdie at all. Then she blinks and comes back to herself. “Right. That’s most of it anyway. Come knead this dough while I get breakfast ready.” She demonstrates the technique.

Birdie takes over with far less assured movements.

But it’s good to have something to do. The wait is agonizing.

Magpie could walk in at any moment. Her baby sister, green eyes wide, eyebrows raised, one with a bright white scar through it.

That scar is all Birdie would need to recognize her sister even though they’ve been apart for seven years.

Six and half years of that time because Birdie was working in a grand house with no days off to visit her family.

Six months of that time because no one could or would tell her where Magpie went after the procedure.

Instead of feeling guilty about the scar being her fault, Birdie holds it like a promise: She marked Magpie, and because of that, she’ll be able to find her again.

She’ll have to be careful when they’re reunited not to give anything away.

But Birdie just wants to see her. To know she’s here, and for Magpie to know that Birdie’s come for her at last.

Birdie and Cook work in silence as the kitchen fills with morning light. It’s odd that Cook hasn’t asked about the other two maids. Maids are never allowed to sleep in. Unless…

Understanding descends like a rock dropped right into her stomach. Birdie eyes Cook with a new wariness. If the woman isn’t annoyed by two new maids being lazy, it’s because she knows exactly why they’re so sleepy. No wonder she seemed surprised by Birdie’s early appearance.

Is Cook the person who was standing at the end of the hallway last night? And why are there no other maids already in the house?

“Right, that’s enough.” Cook puts the dough into a bowl, covers it, and sets it aside before going back to the stove.

The smell of sizzling bacon is almost enough to cover the peat stink.

Birdie’s stomach audibly growls. Cook lets out a dry laugh, then hands her a day-old hunk of bread.

“After breakfast we can have whatever’s left.

That’s how it works now. You understand? ”

Birdie makes a show of yawning and nods.

Cook sighs as she pulls out a tray of baked apples. “That’s how it works now,” she repeats, more to herself than to Birdie.

Birdie wants to ask how it used to work.

Before she can, Cook hands her a key ring with one key selected.

“Go unlock the bedrooms and then knock once, sharply. Don’t open any of the doors, though.

Not all the rooms are occupied, but you’ll learn which are soon enough.

Unlock them all, except the door at the end of the entry hall. Then come right back.”

Birdie does as instructed, going up and down the hallways, unlocking and then knocking with her heart in her throat.

The hallways meet like a T, with the foyer in the center, so it’s easy enough to know which one Cook told her to avoid. Birdie fights the urge to linger and watch for Magpie to come out. It would be so much easier to greet her quietly, where she can warn her sister not to reveal their connection.

As jittery as on her first morning serving in a big house, Birdie hurries back to the kitchen. Cook has a tray waiting. Instead of the baked apple, poached eggs, bacon, and bread, it has only a bowl of mush drizzled with honey.

“Take this to the bedroom closest to the stairs, on the right side,” Cook says. “You might have to spoon-feed.”

Birdie frowns down at the tray. That sounds like nurse work, not maid work. Is everyone in such desperate condition? But Cook shoos her out before she can ask any questions. “Hurry now. If it takes too long, there might not be anything left for you after breakfast.”

Birdie rushes out, fully intending to follow instructions, but she slows and then stops. One of the bedroom doors is open. She can hear voices inside.

“What’s that front area called? Right inside the door?” Minnow. She’s already in the room, talking to one of the residents.

“You mean the foyer?” a girl answers. “I always forget the word for it, too. And I can never remember wardrobe , either. I’m forever referring to it as my dress cupboard.

It aggravates my mother to no end. Or I should say aggravat ed .

I suppose it doesn’t matter what I call it now, since she can’t hear me.

But it makes me wonder, if it’s a ward for robes, what are the poor robes being treated for? ”

Birdie takes a step forward, peeking through the door opening. The girl inside is extremely pretty, probably Birdie’s same age, wrapped in a fall-leaf orange silk robe that sets off her honey eyes, brown skin, and shiny black curls. Not Magpie.

When Minnow doesn’t respond to the nonsense question, the girl keeps talking. “My name’s River.”

River. What is someone named River doing here?

“Hurry, we don’t have much time. Breakfast is always right after Cook unlocks our doors. Before she claims you, could you help me with something? I want to light my fireplace, but there’s no wood. Do you know what this is?”

Birdie dares to get closer. Minnow notices the movement and looks up sharply. Birdie offers a flat smile. “Need help?”

Minnow shakes her head. “Peat briquettes.” She turns back to River, who is seated casually on the floor for a prime view of the fireplace. “You burn them. For heat.”

“Really!” River picks up a brick and examines it, incredulous. “I thought it was dried mud.”

“It is. But it’s peat mud. It lights quickly and smolders even longer. It even burns when it’s wet.”

“You know,” River says, “I kind of like the way it smells.”

Minnow raises an eyebrow. “It’s all you’ll smell soon. How many fires will we need to start this morning?”

Birdie pauses midstep. That’s information she wants, too.

“I couldn’t say. Maybe the others have figured it out on their own, given how chilly we’ve been. I doubt it, though. We’ve all been trained to have no functional value whatsoever.”

If everyone on this floor is useless at something as simple as starting a fire, then they must all be wealthy.

As lively as River seems, there are dark circles under her eyes and a slump to her shoulders that implies deep exhaustion.

Why is she here? Is she alone, or are the rest of the residents her family? It makes no sense.

“How long have you been here?” Minnow asks.

Birdie gives Minnow a sharp glance. Minnow’s taking too long and asking too many questions. She’s going to get in trouble.

River tucks her feet to the side and leans on an outstretched arm. “Oh, don’t worry. You won’t catch what we have. It’s not even considered a problem by most of the country. Only by people like my parents.” She says it breezily, but there’s a sadness beneath her words.

Troubled by River’s presence but also not wanting to get in trouble herself, Birdie steps out of the doorway as though leaving. But then she pauses to keep listening.

“That’s easy enough to light,” River says. “I can do that. You won’t have to come in every morning to help me. Unless you want to.”

“I can help however you need,” Minnow blurts out.

“In that case, I’d like to go on walks. Outside. Cook hasn’t let me, but I’m sure if I had you to accompany me, it would be fine.”

“We’re in the middle of the endless peat bog between north and south. It’s dangerous.”

The peat bog! That’s where they are. Even Birdie knows about the miles and miles of bog splitting their country.

The northern section is a violent, backward place.

It’s a constant drain on resources. Most southern criminals turn their sentences into military-service time, and many families where Magpie and Birdie are from enlist their older children so they can pay for the procedure for a youngest child.

A lot of those with abilities are assigned to the military, sent up the coast to manage whatever nonsense is going on in the north.

Birdie’s biggest fear used to be that gentle Magpie would be stationed there. Would that be better or worse? Surely if Magpie had been on northern patrols, Birdie could have enlisted alongside her. Not the life she’d envisioned, but still one together.

Troubled and annoyed at the delays, Birdie hurries down the hallway to the assigned door. She knocks, then pushes it open. It’s too dim to make out any real details inside.

“Good morning. I have your breakfast.” Birdie sets the tray on a table near the door and then throws open the heavy drapes.

The bedroom is lush and elaborate, with plush, comfortable chairs and impractically large windows.

Families like Birdie’s can’t afford that much daylight.

The fireplace in here would need to be lit around the clock to keep the temperature bearable.

It’s as fine a room as any Birdie’s ever seen, fit for a minister or lord. Freezing, though. She’ll get the fireplace going as soon as she’s seen to breakfast. Even as nervous as she is, her maid-trained mind is already lining up tasks.

She grabs the tray and at last turns to the four-poster bed. There’s a figure lost in the middle of it, staring with wide, blank eyes. Birdie nearly drops the tray.

She knows that face.