James Clemens - Shadowfall

Dart surprisingly felt the same way. Though Margarite had mostly been cruel to her at the old school, the girl would have been a welcome reminder of the only home she had ever known. Alone here, strangers to the castillion, Dart and Laurelle had grown much closer together. They even shared a bed in the dormitories; apparently it was rare to have two handservants-in-waiting arrive at the same time. Still, Laurelle clearly pined for the crush of friends that had always surrounded her.

“I even miss Matron Grannice,” Laurelle sighed. “She was so kind. She once read to me when I was fevered… do you remember that?”

Dart felt tears well in her eyes. She wiped them brusquely. The matron had been as close to a mother as she had ever had. Now she would never see her again. Dart’s defilement would not long go unnoticed here. She would surely be banished… if not worse. She felt a sudden urge to blurt out her fears to Laurelle, to unburden her heart. If there was anyone she could trust…

“Laurelle, can I tell you something?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. The next spilled out in a rush. “Something you’d swear to tell no one else.”

Laurelle shifted closer with a rustle of skirts. “What is it, Dart?”

She reached a hand to her friend. Laurelle grasped it, her eyes bright in the torchlight.

“I… the day that I was sent to the rookery…”

Laurelle squeezed her fingers. “After I teased you,” she said. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget myself and do silly things to make the other girls laugh. I shouldn’t have. It was mean and petty.”

Laurelle’s brow crinkled-not in shame, but with a weary knowledge of her own foolishness. For a moment, Dart saw the woman her friend would grow into: sharp-eyed, with a keen mind and a beauty that would weaken men. Dart suddenly felt too small to speak.

“What is it?” Laurelle encouraged softly.

Dart opened her mouth, ready to confess all.

Then a crash and tinkle of shattering glass startled them both. They swung around.

Dart spotted Pupp, balanced up on his hind legs, nosing one of the upper shelves. A broken repostilary lay at his paws. She watched him sniff at another vessel, setting it to rocking.

“No!” she cried out and leaped to her feet.

Her exclamation was taken up by the ghost and echoed throughout the room. Pupp glanced at her, eyes squinted in chagrin, tiny brass ears tucked back in shame. He lowered himself to the floor. She hurried to him and shooed him back from the shelf, keeping her motions hidden by her skirts.

Laurelle joined her. She stared down at the broken jar and the spilled humour. “How…?” She glanced around the room nervously. “Why did it fall?”

“We have to clean it up!” Dart declared, panicked. “If Matron Shashyl finds out…”

“But we didn’t do anything wrong,” Laurelle said, just a girl again, one who was convinced that the world was just and fair.

Dart knew better. “I don’t know what knocked the jar off the shelf. Maybe a groundshake.”

“I didn’t feel-”

“Maybe a small one, too mild for us to notice, but enough to rattle one of the repostilaries.”

Laurelle nodded, needing to believe something besides the mischievousness of an echoing ghost.

“But will anyone believe that?” Dart crossed back to their abandoned bucket of sudsy soap and brushes. “What if nobody felt the groundshake? We’ll be blamed.”

Laurelle’s eyes grew round.

“Perhaps even cast out for such an abuse.”

Her friend covered her mouth with a small hand. “No!” she whispered through her fingers. “My father would flay me…”

Dart recognized the true terror in the other’s eyes. From the time Laurelle was a babe, her family had groomed her for this position and would not tolerate any other role for her. Since their arrival here, Laurelle had received a single congratulatory letter from her parents, along with a small basket of snowy lilies. Dart had read the note. Though it was mostly kind, there was an undercurrent of disappointment. Laurelle had been chosen for one of the five lesser humours: tears. That night, Laurelle had shed many of her own tears, weeping at her failure, while pretending they were a joyous out-pouring.

Dart had not been fooled. Looking at the raw fear in her friend’s eyes now, Dart wondered if being an orphan was truly the worst outcome for a child.

“We’ll clean it up,” Dart promised. “None will be the wiser. There are thousands of repostilaries stored down here.”

Dart bent and carefully picked up the shards of glass. The tang of yellow bile, the god’s water, wafted. At least it hadn’t been his blood, the most valuable of all the humours. She dropped the sharp bits into the sudsy water, hiding Pupp’s crime. She would cast the broken pieces out when she dumped the bucket.

Laurelle steadied herself with a deep breath. Again proving her inner strength, she dropped to her knees and set about cleaning the spilled humour and rinsed the brush in the water.

In short order, the floor was clean, all evidence scrubbed away.

“We mustn’t tell anyone,” Dart warned.

“Our secret,” Laurelle answered. The last word was echoed by the ghost. It seemed all were in agreement.

With her heart finally calming, Dart glanced over to Pupp. He had his tail tucked low, nose close to the floor. She took a moment to frown at him. How had he knocked the jar off? Was it just another of those chance pushes into this world? Like when he had nipped at Laurelle? But he had done such things only when he was agitated, worked up, and protective of her.

She stared at her hands, remembering the one other time, when her blood had allowed her to touch him. She shied away from that memory and glanced back to the empty spot on the shelf. It made no sense. Unless it had something to do with the power contained within the repostilary, the Grace-rich humour.

As she pondered the mystery, a booming voice called out to them, one not even the ghost dared to mock. “Maidens! Please put up your buckets and brushes!”

Matron Shashyl.

“She knows,” Laurelle bleated in panic.

Dart shushed her with a stern look. “She’s just here to collect us.”

Without windows, time ran strange down here, but Dart was sure it was about the end of their morning shift. That meant a short meal of bread and hard cheese, washed down with a bit of tea and honey. Then it was on to their lessons for the remainder of the day.

Laurelle stood on shaky legs, clutching her brush to her bosom. Dart collected the bucket, knowing that Laurelle would be unable to carry this burden, while Dart was well accustomed to the weight of secrets by now.

She held out the bucket for Laurelle to toss her brush into the water. Their eyes met. Dart read the plain relief in her face.

Laurelle touched Dart’s fingers. “You’re the bravest girl I know.”

Dart took no pride in the praise. She knew the true source of her courage lay not in a stout heart, but in simple despair. With no way of knowing how long her impurity of flesh would remain hidden, she took each day with a roof over her head and a warm meal in her belly as a blessing. But it could not last. She knew this.

She led the way with the bucket and brushes. What did it matter if they were caught? She could only be banished once.

Dart wended the way through the shelves, trailed by Laurelle and Pupp. The light from the pair of torches grew brighter as they neared the door.

A dark shadow filled the threshold.

Matron Shashyl was a large woman, with a substantial bosom and wide hips. There was nary a bit of flab to her, though. Her legs were as stout as a draft horse, and her face could easily be mistaken for the same in the dark.