“Four in the morning always comes too early,” Opalyn grumbles. It’s the first time I’ve heard her say anything that doesn’t radiate sunshine, but I agree. Four A.M. is an ungodly hour to start the day.
Caia and Opalyn change into beige short sleeve dresses made of linen, and then Caia ties Opalyn’s unruly strawberry blonde curls under a white scarf. “You will have to wear your woolen gray dress since you do not have a laundrette smock yet,” she tells me. “And as for boots, you can wear mine for today, and I will wear my slippers.”
Baliella swings the door open, and Opalyn rushes to take some of the breakfast bowls she’s balancing in her arms. Once at the table, Baliella pours thick broth from each of the three bowls into a stone mug. A sudden twinge of guilt digs at me. These strangers, who have so little, now have to share their small breakfast with me.
“I don’t usually eat breakfast. I’m fine,” I say while putting on Caia’s boots.
Baliella looks up sharply. “Nonsense, you are going to need all the nutrition you can get around here.”
Caia raises her eyebrows at me to convey that it’s no use arguing with Baliella.
-
I don’t even try to remember the path we walk as Caia leads us through another series of right and left turns down identical looking hallways after breakfast. I am, however, incredibly grateful for the wool dress as a damp chill seeps in from the stone walls. I don’t know why the other three changed into flimsy linen dresses.
We finally stop in front of a large, wooden door, and Caia heaves it open. An opaque cloud of steam billows out, obscuring my view and making it hard to breathe. As it dissipates, I follow the others into a large, double height room made of sandstone. Clerestory windows along the top of one wall let in gray daylight, but I barely have time to appreciate the meager sunlight as I begin choking on the lavender scented humidity invading my lungs. The scent instantly sends me back to when I was seven, squatting next to my mother in her plant nursery while she points to a bee collecting pollen from a lavender flower. I am entranced by the bee and my mother's seemingly endless knowledge about everything from the bee’s activities to its chain reaction on our ecosystem. I’ve always thought her brilliant. My heart aches anew, and I swat at the lavender steam dispersing the memory.
I assess the castle’s cavernous laundry room to distract myself from homesickness. Dried garments hang from ropes crisscrossing the space above us. In the corner to my right is a mountain of plump, white canvas bags; various tables, wooden buckets, and even metal cauldrons are scattered throughout; and built into the ground in the center of the room is a giant stone pool with bubbling water emitting the lavender steam turning the laundrette into a sauna.
“Isn’t it marvelous?” Opalyn asks, sounding like a young child on Christmas morning.
“It’s definitely something,” I say while a fat bead of sweat snakes its way down my spine. “Are we the only ones who work here?”
“Oh no! There are about fifty of us. Caia just likes to get here early because she says it makes a good impression. Since I am part Achrann, I really need to make a good impression. But Madam is already here. She is the head laundress and practically lives here.” Opalyn points to a corner where I see Caia talking with a tall, older woman with dark bushy eyebrows dressed in the same linen smock and white scarf. Caia nods at the woman, then walks over to us.
“Madam has agreed to sign you as a laundress, Nina, as long as today goes well. She will give you your assignment after she checks rotations. Wait here for her. Remember, no eye contact.” With her final warning given in a low whisper, I watch Caia and Opalyn head to the farthest wooden table where Baliella is already folding linens. I feel like a child left at school for the first time. The only familiar faces in this strange world have just walked away from me.
“Nina is it?” The Madam says in a gravelly voice, and my eyes drop to the floor. “Caia vouches for you, but today is still a trial. We will see if you earn your rations at the end of the day. I see you already have a gray woolen. That will have to do for today. I’m starting you as a hauler. It’s heavy work, but even an idiot can do it. Follow me.”
As we make our way across the laundrette, more and more women, all in beige linen smocks with white scarves, enter the room and take up their positions. I want to look around, curious about the inhabitants of this world, but I make sure to keep my eyes on the ground.
The Madam stops in front of the pile of canvas bags in the corner. “Your job is to move the dirty laundry bags from drop off to the picker tables to be sorted before laundering.” I keep my eyes no higher than table level while the Madam explains which bags go to which tables. “It’s a simple job, but you gotta work fast. Lista and Maigin are also haulers, and they’ll be grateful for another pair of hands as long as you stay out of their way.” I stumble forward when the Madam slaps me on the back before leaving.
“What are you waiting for, princess?” One of the women hollers. “Get to work.”
My cheeks heat. Princess? I can handle myself, thank you very much. As teenagers, Patrick and I used to help my mother in the summers unloading bags of soil, mulch, and seed at the nursery. Dirt is heavy. Sure, Patrick would always lift the extra heavy ones for me, but some bags of dirty laundry will be nothing.
I march over to the first black-tagged bag, grab it with two hands, and pull. Nothing happens. I tug again. Nothing. Out of the corner of my eye I see the other women using their body’s leverage to hoist the bag over their shoulders. I grasp the top of the bag, firm my grip, and throw my body weight backwards. The bag dislodges from its spot, and I whip it over my shoulder. Piece of cake.
Unfortunately, my satisfaction fizzles when the bag doesn’t come to rest on my back. Instead, its momentum continues past my shoulder, jerking my arms up, and dragging me with it. Rather than letting go, my hands clench in a death grip, and the bag and I go sailing backwards. The canvas hits the floor with a thump, and I land on top of it. Legs in the air, dress falling to my middle exposing my “undergarments” to the world. An explosion of laughter bursts from the women around me while I scramble up and yank my dress down. My skin feels hot and prickly, and I desperately want to crawl under the nearest rock and never come out.
“Get back to work!” crows the Madam.
With excess adrenaline, I hoist the bag off the floor, lifting with my knees, and plop the overstuffed bag on the appropriate table. The tittering slowly fades, but I notice some of the women still wiping tears from their eyes. Avoiding eye contact should be easy now that I will never be able to look anyone in the face ever again.
With much less confidence than before, I keep my head down and body moving as I haul laundry bag after laundry bag to the appropriate tables to be sorted. Thankfully, none of the women say anything about my humiliating first attempt, nor do they call me princess again.
After only ten bags, sweat beads my forehead, the wool dress is cemented to my back with perspiration, and my borrowed boots are beginning to chafe around the ankles. I trudge back to the pile of laundry bags, but stumble sideways when Maigin shoulders past me. “Keep up, or stay out of my way. Break’s not for another two hours,” she barks.
Two hours? I let out a breath. “You can do this,” I whisper to myself, picking up my pace. “Can’t you just, like, magically clean everything?” I ask, tossing a bag on a table.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” Maigin asks.
I shrug. “Kinda far, kinda near.” Not technically a lie since who knows where my world is in proximity to here.
She blocks my path and spins me around, pointing over my shoulder at five women at a table near the center pool. I watch one of the women pick up a shirt with a dark red stain on the front. She waves her fingers in front of the stain, and it begins to fade before she tosses it into the steaming pool.
“Those five women and Madam are some of the only ones left with strong practical charm gifts ever since the end of the Blood Restoration. That’s why they’re here. The rest of us have unrelated magic, and have to use brute strength,” Maigin says before walking off to grab another laundry bag.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I’m becoming increasingly damp every second. Walking over to grab another bag, I ask, “What do you mean? Is charm magic rare?”
Maigin squints at me. “Everyone knows new wielders' magic has become less potent. That’s what you get without the Blood Restoration. But you didn’t hear it from me,” she says in a low tone, and brushes by me.
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I continue to work in silence, willing my aching limbs and sweat-soaked body to keep going. Though I’ve significantly slowed, I still keep a steady pace, and by the end of the two hours Lista taps my shoulder to inform me of my three minute break. “The water barrel is over there,” she points behind her.
I am allowed one ladleful of water before I have to head back to my station. “These labor conditions are criminal,” I mutter before grabbing what feels like my one thousandth laundry bag with a surprising amount of renewed energy. I continue working without pause, picking up dozens of sodden laundry bags and tossing them on tables. My arms are numb, my back aches, and my legs feel like jelly, but my movements are robotic and I don’t even notice the passage of time until Maigin stops me.
“You can take the first lunch, fifteen minutes,” she says.
“Thanks.” I nod.
Lunch is served near the water barrel and consists of a single steamed root vegetable of a mysterious variety. Women pick up bowls and find crates or piles of dirty laundry to rest on while they eat. I pick up a bowl and glance around.
Baliella pops up in front of me. “You look worse for wear.”
I look down at my sweat-drenched woolen dress. “Yeah, I understand why you all wear linen.”
She smirks, looking me up-and-down. “Come with me.”
I follow her to a corner near the folding station where Caia and Opalyn still work. Baliella takes a seat on a wooden crate and motions to the one next to her, but I shake my head. “I’m worried that if I sit down I won’t be able to stand back up,” I say.
“Suit yourself.” She shrugs and starts eating. I lean against the wall and pick at my pathetic looking lunch. Still, I’m enjoying my brief moment of peace, until a tiny, fuzzy creature scuttles across my foot. I squeal and jump, tossing my vegetable into the air. It lands on the ground with a splat.
Baliella pauses mid-chew to eye the dead vegetable. “The Fates are surely against you,” she intones.
“What was that?” I ask, more concerned with whatever just ran across my foot.
“Oh, a lint-scurry.”
“A what?”
Baliella sighs. “Lint. Scurry.” She pronounces the words slowly and loudly as if talking to an illiterate child. “They are pieces of lint that have been animated by excess magic.”
“I’m going to need more of an explanation than that.” My eyes dart around the room, wary of other animated objects.
Baliella sets her bowl to the side, motioning for me to come closer, and points to a woman near the center pool. “See that woman there? Holding up a pale blue gown with a brown stain?” I nod. “Maraflyn is terrible at predicting how much magic she will need to remove a stain. Watch.”
The woman tilts her head left, then right, then left again. She waves her hand and a shimmer spreads over the garment. The stain slowly begins to disappear, but then there’s a pop and a few blue sparks fall to the ground skittering across the floor in every direction. “What did I tell you,” Baliella scoffs, shaking her head.
“If those sparks can animate anything they touch, then why don’t you have crates or dirty laundry walking around?”
“Are you a dolt?” Baliella stares at me. “Those blue sparks hold barely any magic, nowhere near enough magic to animate a crate. But you don’t have to worry about lint-scurries they’re easily extinguished by stepping on them, drowning them, or flicking them into a fire.”
“Oh how cruel.”
She rolls her eyes. “They’re not actually alive.”
At that moment, an orange, fuzzy lint ball hops up on the crate next to me and blinks two tiny black eyes. “Awe, they’re kinda cute!” I smile at it, but Baliella pulls her hand back. “No!” I cry when I realize she’s getting ready to smash it under her palm. I quickly cup the lint-scurry in my hands and swoop it away from her.
“Great Fates, Nina. It’s not real, and there are hundreds of them around here. Thousands.” Annoyed, she grabs our empty bowls and takes them back to the lunch station.
I hold the lint-scurry in front of my face and gently coo. “It’s okay little guy, I got you. You live to scurry another day.” The lint-scurry blinks its tiny eyes and stretches out a fuzzy leg to rub its tiny face. I smile and gently place it back on the ground behind the crates out of the way of any foot traffic. “Be careful,” I call as it scurries away.
A genuine smile spreads across my face. Patrick would love the lint-scurry. Or at least he would have indulged my need to make sure it was safe. One time, he had spent an entire Saturday morning helping me rescue a baby bird that had fallen into our gutter from its nest. “Helping me” isn’t quite accurate since he was the one who did all the rescue work. Yes, I was the instigator, but he was the one who climbed the ladder, while I paced down below and bit my fingernails and yelled “be careful” a million times. That moment feels like a lifetime ago, now.
-
“I’m surprised you came back, new girl. I bet Lista a food ration that you weren’t going to make it past lunch.” Amusement laces Maigin’s voice as she heads toward the lunchline.
“Looks like Lista’s getting two soggy potatoes for lunch today,” I say under my breath as I bend and lug a canvas bag up to my shoulder starting the final leg of the day.
I have no choice, but to keep going. This is my only ticket to more clothing and food while I wait around for a double full moon. I don't want to have to rely on Caia’s goodwill to supply my basic needs.
I feel blisters forming on my feet, and my arms shake every time I heave a laundry bag over my shoulder, but I keep going and keep my eyes down. The women at the sorting tables have become acclimated to my silent presence because a light chatter picks up among them. I only catch snippets of their gossip, but I listen carefully each time I dump a canvas bag on a table.
“Her Highness’s birthday is this week…”
“...at least we’ll all get a glass of wine.”
“Jeminna served last year and she was practically assaulted…”
“...you’ve heard what they say about the younger son, Prince Epheiren?”
“...takes a different bedmaid every week.” “Those poor women.”
“I’m not sure who’s more vile. Him or his older brother, Prince Aldermin.”
“...will attend the party?” “If there’s a pretty face around, so is Prince Epheiren.”
“Good Fates, if I touch another pair of wet…”
I drop my last bag on the table. Sweat drips from the tips of my nose and chin; my wool dress is two pounds heavier from sweat. “Congrats new girl, you survived.” Lista tosses the compliment at me before she and Maigin walk off.
“Thanks,” I pant, wiping my face on my damp sleeve. I look around, unsure where to go. Spying Caia, Opalyn, and Baliella still folding clothes along the far wall, I head their way.
“Nina!” squeals Opalyn. “Congratulations on your first day! Oh goodness, you look a bit wet. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, waving her off. “It’s just the humidity in here.”
Caia chuckles. “You can sit over on the crates to wait for us. Unfortunately, we are usually one of the last stations to finish for the day.”
“No, I can help.” I can barely get the words out. “I can help you fold.” All three of them gape at me.
“I think she overheated and fried her brain,” Baliella says.
“I’m going to get signed by the Madam. I’m going to help you fold,” I say with more force.
“You can start with that pile,” Caia points to a neat pile of white blouses laid one on top of the other.
I work slowly and silently, but I like the task for the same reason I liked hauling canvas laundry bags all day: it occupies my mind and time, and prevents me from ruminating on my situation and worrying about my mother and Patrick.
“Oh, really great work, Nina!” Opalyn cheers at a particularly nice fold I just completed. How can this girl be this happy about folding clothes all day? Aside from Opalyn’s outbursts of verbal praise for my folding abilities, the four of us work in silence for the last two hours of the work day.
“First ones here and last ones to leave.” Madam’s gravel voice rakes down my nerves, and I make sure to lower my eyes to the ground. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Opalyn’s head is also bowed as she stares at the ground, but Caia’s and Baliella’s aren’t. Madam continues, “While not the most impressive start to the day, you finished and stayed late. That’s something. Come to my desk so I can sign you in and get you a uniform, boots, bedroll, and food rations.” The Madam nods once at Caia and Baliella before turning toward her desk, completely skipping over Opalyn.
I stand to follow the Madam, but I’m stopped by a hand squeezing mine. I look back and see Opalyn beaming at me with tears lining her eyes. “I’m so proud of you, Nina,” she whispers. A smile softens my face, and I squeeze Opalyn’s hand before following the Madam.
-
Back in our room, Opalyn jumps up and down. “You did it, Nina! You did it!”
Giggling, Caia clasps Opalyn’s face in her hands. “We are all so proud of Nina, but you must be more quiet, Opie.” She pulls Opalyn to her chest in a tight hug, lying her cheek on top of her head. “We really are quite proud of you, Nina.” Caia smiles, still holding Opalyn.
“Thank you.” I blink back tears. I’m not sure if they are from the physical exhaustion of the day, the pride in acquiring basic needs in a foreign land, or witnessing the sweet display of affection between Opalyn and Caia that makes me miss my mother terribly. I absently touch my necklace and think of her.
“I don’t understand all the fuss,” Baliella grouses while stoking the fire. “She has earned honest compensation for honest work.”
“Baliella, the pragmatist.” Caia looks at me with a knowing smile.
After a dinner of bean stew and a cloth bath, I crawl into my own bedroll in a dry nightdress. I know I have numerous things to be stressed about, but my body and brain are too exhausted to delve into my anxieties.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Caia rises from her bedroll and comes back with a small glass vial of clear liquid. “I got you a tonic to restore your muscles and joints, so you will be able to walk and lift your arms tomorrow. I have had my time at the hauling station. Trust me, you will need this.”
I knock the fizzy concoction back in one go. It tastes earthy and putridly sour. “Oh god, that’s worse than a tequila shot,” I huff and wipe my mouth. Caia cocks her head to the side as she takes the vial back. “It’s—never mind,” I say. “Thank you for the tonic. You think of everything, don’t you?”
Minutes later I sink into a deep, dreamless sleep.
