A Web of Steam & Puppet Strings (Sevastyan #1)

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

  

After breakfast, I returned to my art project outside, filling in his face with more sand than earth. As the sun climbed higher into the sky, sweat prickled my forehead and neck. A few of the tenants came by to watch during breaks from their training, which only made me sweat harder. I wasn't into voyeurism, after all. An audience made me nervous, more aware of every little stroke I made. But they liked to watch. Something about me pouring myself into coating the wood with colors was music to them, and they'd sit and half discuss the dying winter, looking forward to when the dandelions would crop up again and the frogs sang in the murky pond.

Little things mattered when nothing ever changed.

Lunch came and went. A large bowl of barley flour and milk fat porridge, with salted milk tea in a separate smaller bowl. Sustenance designed to maintain our weight.

Afterwards, I smoothed back my hair and tackled the drawing again. I knew it was time to call it a day when my fingers turned raw from using up so many stubs on his glowing eyes and the rosy flush of his cheeks. Soon, he'd crawl right out of the wall, living and breathing. Maybe then he'd actually notice me.

Or he'd notice the pretty girls.

The latter was more likely.

I peeled myself away from the wall and raised moisture from the damp earth to rinse my hands. I sipped water from my cleaned palms to replace lost sweat, and then hefted my crate under my arm.

The hour after lunch was lazy time. A number of the others had decided to partake of the sunlight, relaxing across the cold earth, napping, staring up at the sky to watch the blotches of clouds swim past. Inside the corridor, the air was just as stale as ever, and everything was quiet. I stepped into the bunker quarters, and directly ahead, the Doors that Never Opened glared back with its proud set of doctrines displayed.

'Be Within Bed Chamber Walls When the Bell Tolls.'

'Keep Neat and Tidy.'

'No Propagation.'

'Behave Moderately.'

'Do Not Fail.'

Meet curfew, be clean, don't reproduce, no fighting—and do not fail.

I reached for the handle of the weathered wooden door to our bunk and dragged it open— and then stood there stupidly, staring down at Eliza's body twined with another fellow inmate's, Katya, atop the mangled sheets of the cot. The vision of tangled limbs and mashed mouths and Eliza's hair in Katya's fist left me forgetting I had the skills to function, at least until Eliza huffed and said, "Sev, go away!"

Right.

Heat surged to my face and I slammed the door harder than I intended, startling even myself. Robotically, I marched back down the hall, crate choked by my arm. When I threw open the Playground door for the much needed shock of fresh air, however, I turned right back round at the sight of three particular inmates mutilating the ground for practice.

The door slid shut behind me.

Unnecessary conflict avoided.

I escorted myself over to the other wing, into the weight-training room, and moved to the foggy windows to crumple onto a wooden bench—which startled me with a loud groan. I forgot to sit softly when I was frazzled.

A few of my fellow nearby inmates mocked me for my awkwardness, all in good fun. I'd had worse things said about me before, anyway.

Once I'd finally remembered my motor skills, I pried my stiff fingers from my lover, the chalk box, and set her safely aside. I loathed weight-lifting almost as much as I loathed the necessity to do it, and as I watched Lazar and his best mates catapult mounds of earth at each other, uprooting what little grass that had managed to sprout, I felt little inclination to bother.