I remember watching the workers with great excitement and curiosity. Lord Scinder loved solving problems, and he wanted a life of comfort for his wife and daughter.
A pang of loss, like a knife to the belly, forces me to set down the bucket and lean against the stone wall. Revisiting these happy memories also means remembering his funeral and everything that came after, which is still more pain than I can bear, all these years later. I usually let them simmer hazily in the back of my mind, but on this bright morning with dawn still painting the horizon in shades of deep-blue, grief slices right through me.
The bell screams again.
Tom winds around my ankles. I swipe the tears away and heft my bucket. Father died before he could finish the drainage system, and so, a decade and a half later his daughter hauls water for the vile man who replaced him. My father would have been furious if he had lived to see it.
If he’d lived, none of this would have happened in the first place, but there’s no use in dwelling on what might have been.
Inside, I put tea on to boil and whip together fresh griddle cakes, eggs, and bacon while Tom chases a mouse.
“Good Tomcat. Leave the birds alone and go after the mice instead.”
I’m practical about the mouse problem. I have to be; we hardly have enough food to feed ourselves, and any lack comes out of my meager rations. Rodents that venture indoors are fair game.
He flops down in a sunbeam to groom and nap while I carry a heavy tray up to the second floor.
Cilla’s room is dark. Each morning, she yanks on the bellpull and then rolls over and goes back to sleep until I bring her breakfast. This morning, I kept her waiting long enough to set off her hair-trigger temper.
“You’re late, Cinder,” she snaps from deep within her curtained bed when I place the tray on her nightstand. “My chamber pot needs emptying. I cannot possibly eat with this stench!”
I cage my response behind my teeth and open the window. The smell of her own waste wouldn’t be so awful if she bothered closing the lid. I nudge the porcelain top closed, holding my breath and grimacing with distaste. I carry it down to the yard, where I toss the contents into the manure wagon.
Then I scrub everything—the chamber pot, my hands, and the apron I was wearing—with harsh soap that stings the scratch Tom gave me earlier, wincing. When it’s done, I set the apron and porcelain container to dry in the sun, but I still feel disgusting. Sweat trickles down my spine. I would give almost anything for a proper hot bath. That, however, would mean drawing the water, heating it, and draining it myself. I rarely have the energy to bother with all that.
Another bell rings. Anastacia’s. Sighing, I unlock the cabinet mounted to the wall and scan the empty vials stored inside. Witch hazel, elderberry, willow bark…
I select the last one and make a pot of willow bark tea.
The base of the apothecary cabinet contains a hidden compartment. This was once where strong medicines were kept. I push the button and slide it out, dismayed by the nine empty bottles I find inside.
Not a single drop of magic potion for my stepsisters to fight over.
Sighing, I close it up and carry Anastacia’s tray to her room. Her snores echo loudly from the high ceiling. I can’t help but smile. She’s as stupid as she is vain—extremely so in both cases—yet she’s the youngest of us three girls, and when she’s asleep, she’s almost sweet.
It’s only when she wakes up and begins fretting about her figure, her hair, her snub nose, her clothing, and everything else that goes into a lady’s appearance that she starts echoing her sister’s and father’s mean-spirited comments about me, to make herself feel better by comparison. She’d never think of a clever insult on her own.
“Owww….” Anastascia moans.
“I’ve made you tea for your headache,” I say neutrally.
“Need a spell,” she whines.
“Your addiction to magic is what got you a headache in the first place,” I respond tartly. As long as we’re alone and she’s hungover from illicit magic, it’s safe to speak my mind.
“Bring me some.” Anastasia rolls up and places her chubby feet in her fluffy slippers, shuffling over to the table. “I need it. I can hardly stand to look at myself without it.”
“Can’t. We’re out.” She bursts into tears. “Try the tea. It will help.”
“You have to visit the witch and get more, Mouse. Today. Right now.”
“After I rouse your father, and only if he gives me money for it. We’re also low on flour, sugar”—Anastasia loves sugar—“and lentil beans. I also need seeds for the vegetable garden if we’re to grow enough to get through the winter.”
“But what about my new dress?”
“Talk to Tremaine.”
I take her chamber pot down to the yard and repeat the process of cleaning it, eyeing my roughened hands. Working hands. Not those of a lady.
