Page 108 of Into the Heartless Wood
She’s not expecting to see me, either.
She drops the tray.
Chapter Forty
SEREN
BEING HUMAN IS THE STRANGEST THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENEDto me. My body grows hungry and weary. My hands grow chapped and rough with work. My feet and back and arms ache from standing and walking and carrying. My mind is dizzy with remembering the layout of the palace, the instructions of the cook and the housekeeper, the names of the other maids, the names ofthings.
And every time I see Owen, I ache. That first night, when he helped me peel potatoes. This afternoon in the stables, his bloody back making me want to strangle the Soul Eater with my own two hands. I know it is the Soul Eater’s fault. It has to be.
Now he is here in the dish room, on his knees, scrambling to pick up pieces of broken plates while I gape at him like a fish drowning in air on a riverbank. He’s changed his shirt, but red still seeps through.
I force my body to move, to act. I kneel with him, minding the jagged edges.
“Do you have a broom?” he asks when we’ve collected all the larger pieces.
I nod to the closet in the corner, and he goes to fetch it, bending and sweeping up the rest of the mess, though I know it pains him. He winces with every movement.
“I have to get back to the dishes or my commanding officer will kill me,” he says when he’s finished.
“I was supposed to wash all that,” I admit, staring helplessly at the dustbin.
He laughs. “Less work for both of us, then.”
I join him at the sink, plunging my arms into the scalding soapy water. We work companionably side by side for some moments, him washing, me rinsing and then stacking the dishes neatly in their racks to dry.
“Why are you here?” I blurt after a while.
He looks at me. “My father was arrested on charges of treason. Both him and my sister were taken here. I’m trying to work out a way to free them.”
Unease twists through me. I think of his sister. I am afraid I know why the Soul Eater wants her.
I want to tell Owen everything—confess who I am and why I am here. I want him to look into my eyes and see me for myself, and not revile me. I want him to dance with me again, like he did on our hill in the wood.
But I cannot tell him. I cannot ever tell him. Because the last time I saw him, his mother tore out her own heart and died on the ground like an animal. Because of my mother.
Because of me.
I will never forgive you for what you did to my mother. If I ever see you again, I will kill you.
So instead I tell him I will look for his sister as soon as I can slip away. I tell him to wait for me in the kitchen courtyard when the moon is high, and if I have news of her, I will meet him there.
He looks into my eyes. He smiles at me. Thanks me.
But only because he does not know who I am.
There are moments when I sense my power, lurking just beneath my skin, moments when I can reach the threads of my old life, remember the spark and pull of a human’s soul. I can sense Owen’s again. I have to concentrate, stand very still andreachin a way I did not have to when I was wholly my mother’s monster. But I can feel it. I do not know if that means my human skin is already fraying around the edges, or if I have simply gotten used to this form.
Whatever it is, it will help me find Awela. When I slip from the kitchen with a tray of food meant to be brought up to a nobleman’s sick wife, I stop in an out-of-the-way corridor, press my shoulders up against the wall, andreachfor her. At first I do not feel anything, but I reach deeper, further. And there—the glimmer of her soul. She is here, somewhere. Owen was right.
Uneasiness worms through me. I grip the tray tighter, and take the servants’ stair to the next floor. The feel of Awela’s soul is still faint, but it seems a little stronger. I climb to the next floor, then the next. The pull of her soul grows bright and strong.
I am on the top level of the palace, a many-paned window at the end of the corridor looking west over the plains far, far below. There are no trees up here, like there are on every other floor; the walls are painted with birds and bright flowers. Violets spill out of tall clay pots. There is only one door, and the tug of Awela’s soul pulses strongly behind it.
I am still carrying the dinner tray, and so I step up to the door and knock. A pale, white-haired old woman opens it. Beyond her a dark-haired child plays with toys scattered on the rug, her soul burning bright.
The old woman moves to block my view of Awela. “I didn’t send for food,” she says coldly. “And you’re not the usual maid. What are you doing up here?”
