Etta

Chapter Four

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.