Chapter Four
Etta stood under the freezing shower, shivering but determined. She couldn't face any hot water just then, her back and mouth still sore. The welts on her back had distracted her from the massive gash to her chin. Bow whip hurt. A lot. Her chin had swollen because she hadn't managed to get any ice on it, she decided she'd have to go find some after she'd cleaned herself up.
She dumped her clothes in the washing hatch — a long metal tunnel that sent clothes to the laundry — and wrapped a towel around her body.
Pointing her back to the mirror, she turned her head. Across her back were five lines, pink and red streaks in between her shoulder blades. They stood out from the silver grooves that were already there.
They were bloody and horrible, but it looked as though whatever Matilda had done had stopped it from becoming yellow. They'd usually gone yellow by that point. She looked down at her feet, remembering for the first time in ages that she needed to wash them properly.
She filled the wash basin with warm water, and dipped her feet in one at a time. The bottoms stung from where she'd walked across stones and grit, but otherwise they were fine.
Her hair, her face, her feet. It was so much more comfortable when she wasn't caked in sweat and blood.
All she wanted to do was sleep, but she hadn't eaten in two days. Her body felt weak and defeated, and the pain in her stomach had increased tenfold since she'd been let out. So she tied her hair up, slipped on a fresh pair of dark green trousers and a very light shirt, and went down to the kitchens.
She wasn't even sure what time it was, not managing to pass a clock on her way down, but the slaves in the courtyard were practising their sword fighting. She couldn't see Matilda though she didn't really look.
The boy was there again, sat opposite her room like before. His smirk had gone and he had a fresh wound across his cheek. Etta tried not to look at him.
The kitchens were on the other side of the building to her room, and halfway there she was sure her feet were going to give up beneath her. It didn't seem to be a training day, so hopefully Daryl wasn't waiting for her around a corner. She really didn't need a punch in the face just then. If anything it'd pretty much finish her if it did happen.
She made it downstairs, and the smell of freshly baked bread and hot soup reached her nostrils. Her stomach grumbled at that. So hungry. So so hungry.
The cook, Frederich, was dancing behind the pot. Chucking bits of ingredients into it, and pinching spices together. It was food for some of the guards that lived in the establishment. And her. Of course. The slaves didn't get the same meals they did.
He was singing, the jolliness pulling at her lips and making her smile. He hadn't noticed her slip in. She supposed he was her friend too, always sneaking her food here and there. She thought at first it might be because he was terrified of her. But he seemed completely at ease, his grey beard moving along to a tune she didn't recognise. Interrupting would be hard as all she wanted to do was watch him, but the pain in her stomach was pushing her to ask.
'Fred?' she said, raising her eyebrows and waiting for him to notice her.
He jumped, his head jolting up to look at her.
'Oh, hello, cherub. You scared me then.' He laughed heartily, several of his chins bouncing. 'What can I do for you, my lovely?'
Kind words. Etta didn't get to hear them very much and when she did, she felt a little nervous.
'Food, please.'
Fred's face twisted a little. 'Do you not usually eat with the others?' He raised one eyebrow. 'Fall outs, Miss Etta?'
She chewed the inside of her cheeks, thinking about the best way to answer. Her stomach was growling so much, she was sure he could hear it over the bubbling broth.
'No. I'm not feeling too good.' She shrugged, hoping that would throw him off. It was true, she wasn't. To be honest, he probably already knew that she'd been stuck in isolation for two days. Word got round the building in a matter of minutes, especially when it was her. She must've been the most interesting person in the place.
'Hmm. Okay, grab a bowl from the pot pantry then.'
She gave him a half smile, trying to hide the enthusiasm from her walk to the cupboard, the small child inside her skipping. She looked for the biggest table bowl she could find and slammed it down next to Fred, who laughed and ladled a large amount of steaming soup into it. The smell made her belly jump up and down.
Scooping the bowl up, she thanked him again and again, and snuck a piece of bread from the basket. She was pretty sure he saw, but he didn't say anything as he looked back down at the cooking pot.
Food wasn't allowed in the bedrooms. It was stupid to have a rule like that in an establishment like that one, but Etta had always abided by it. But she didn't want to sit in the soldiers' mess hall because it was full of, well, guards. So she followed her feet into the slaves' courtyard, where a big wooden table was stretched the length of it. A few teenagers were sat playing something at one end, but everyone else was doing something else.
Etta became aware of how naked she felt without her external weaponry. Like any of them could go for her in a second and she wouldn't be able to get to her dagger in time. She figured a lot of them really did hate her, and not because of unjust reasons either.
She kept her face pointed upwards, and shoulders wide, trying to make herself look bigger. Every face pointed in her direction, and her stomach knotted from something other than hunger. Plonking the bowl down on the table, she climbed over the bench and sat down, somewhere in the middle. The boys at the other end started at her.
The soup tasted amazing, tangy from the root vegetables but filling from the potato. She realised after she'd eaten the whole thing in seconds, that it was a bit of a dickish move. The slaves didn't eat that badly, but they couldn't get food whenever they felt like it. They were on a strict protein based diet, which contained a lot of powdered substitutes instead of regular food. And Frederich wasn't their cook, so the food couldn't have been as good. Etta threw a couple of looks around as she dropped her spoon into the empty bowl.
They'd all stop talking, their faces turned towards her. Some were maimed, their faces covered in cuts and scars. Some looked as though they'd never been in the ring before. As she sat amongst them all fear curled up inside her.
What the hell was she doing sat inside there? Why didn't she just find a small cubby somewhere instead?
Standing up, she picked up her empty bowl and rushed out of there. No one touched her, no one even talked to her, but the way they were looking made her feel sick and uneasy. Just before she slammed the door, her eyes connected with someone's. Ruth's.
She wasn't sure she'd ever heard Ruth talk, but her eyes burned then. Right through Etta. Hatred. Loathing. Something else too but she wasn't sure what. She was never great at reading people. It was enough to make her stop for a second. Stare. But Ruth broke gaze first.
She gave the bowl to the closest servant and rushed to her room, her heart feeling heavy and wrong. Just as she was about to slam her bedroom door, she saw the group staring at her, the boy from the bars right at the front, Ruth was gone. They were judging her, pure hatred on their faces.
