Ashtin stood in front of the mirror that jutted slightly from the sideboard. It was the only mirror in the servants' quarters, tucked away behind the crates and brooms and buckets in the spandrel. She'd washed her face, used dozens of pins to achieve the most regal hairstyle she could think to conjure, scrubbed her work shoes. She stared at the dress she was wearing. The orange candlelight flickered against the pink bodice, the gold patterns silvering and glistening. It was everything she could have imagined, even with the small tear in the skirt. And Gwen was right—the pink somehow lightened her skin.
For a moment she stared into her own eyes, searching for reassurance that what she was doing was, in fact, a good idea. She straightened her spine and nodded with resolve.
When she turned and opened the door, she held her breath for a moment, worried that a servant might have come back down for a new tray of clean glasses or napkins. It was only when she was met only with a cool draft of air and the creaking of the floorboards that she allowed herself to breathe again. The kitchen was dark, and she could only make out the silhouettes of the dishes and trays set out on the counters. Trays of cheeses and fruits, of assorted chocolates and candies. And above her, the rumbling of footsteps and a muffled melodic cadence. The occasional excerpt of a conversation carried down the steps.
Ashtin waited at the foot of the staircase for a moment, her hand grazing the railing. She stared up at the thin door and the flickering lamp swaying gently from the ceiling. A distant peel of laughter echoed down the stairwell.
She climbed the staircase as if it was her first time again. The grand ballroom would not be left vacant and drafty. The marble floor would be swathed in gowns and dancing shoes. Ashtin would find herself among Dordan aristocrats; people who would probably hate her. Immediately alert the intruder to Mistress. Have her beaten right there on the terrace.
Ashtin balked at the door. Hundreds of voices blurred together in a hum behind the wooden frame, joined with a melodic mirage of sound. Remembering the man in the church, she imagined the slanted table. Only this collection of sounds was different.
Then, the click of footsteps approaching the door. Ashtin stepped back from the door, heat rushing to her face.
The door opened cautiously, and there stood Gwen, just as they'd planned.
Ashtin relaxed and allowed herself to smile. Gwen looked beautiful, as she'd expected. Unlike Ashtin's, her dress was not made up of layers, but of only a soft white fabric that flowed regally around her figure. The bodice was ruffled and lined with golden thread, and the sleeves stopped just below her shoulders. Her hair was curled and pulled back, garnished with a headband decorated with white and gold flowers. Her porcelain cheeks wore a subtle pink rouge.
Gwen took a moment to study Ashtin as well. She smiled warmly, seemingly delighted with how she'd prepared herself. For a moment, her smile faltered as her eyes traveled down the dress.
She must've noticed the tear. Her shoulders drooped. "What happened?" she asked, and Ashtin could barely hear her over the cacophony behind them.
Ashtin merely shrugged. "I'm not sure. I must've snagged it." She smiled innocently. "I'm sorry."
"No matter," she said, and took Ashtin's hand. "You still look lovely."
She started to lead her out of the stairwell, but Ashtin couldn't bring herself to move forward. She peered to see behind Gwen. She glimpsed blips of blue and white, lavender and yellow. Tophats and sleek black tuxedo jackets. Light from the candelabras danced on the ceiling and made shapes of couples on the walls. Servants stood like statues against the walls, holding trays steadily.
"Don't be scared," Gwen was saying to her.
"I don't know about this, Gwen." Ashtin's hand was trembling.
Gwen squeezed it. "No one will notice us. We'll be dancing."
At last, Ashtin allowed herself to be pulled over the threshold. She felt the draft behind her as the door closed—and then, she could no longer think. Gwen was guiding her forward, but her eyes tried to take it all in.
A long table at the other side of the room, set with the delicacies Ashtin had seen the other servants preparing for days. Women standing in groups, talking among themselves, all dressed similarly to Gwen. Men sucking on pipes and surveying the room. Others merely stood in a half circle, surrounding couples immersed in a dance. Ashtin glanced towards the staircase. Before it, a group of men in white tuxedos held oblong objects, and she saw that they were the ones making the melodies.
"Gwen!" Ashtin called, shaking her hand to capture her attention. "What is that called?"
Gwen turned to see where Ashtin was pointing. She laughed, seemingly surprised. "You've never seen instruments before?"
"No, what are they for?"
As they spoke, Gwen stepped back and took Ashtin's arm in hers. They had planted at the bak of the crowd. "To play music!"
"Music?" Ashtin tested the word out on her tongue.
Gwen moved closer to Ashtin's ear so she could hear her better. "There," she said, pointing at the gentleman on the end, "he and the gentleman on the right are the violinists. And the one sitting—he plays the oboe."
"Where's the slanted table?" Ashtin asked.
Gwen thought for a second. "You mean the pianoforte? It's in the parlor. Strings are best for dancing."
Ashtin stared at the group in awe. She watched the concentration in their faces, how lost they seemed to be in the sounds they were making.
"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard," Ashtin whispered to Gwen.
She seemed unimpressed. "It's a popular piece. They play it at every party. If you'd like to hear real genius, you'll have to here my uncle sometime. He's played the pianoforte since he was four."
Ashtin's eyes wandered back to the sea of people out in front of her. Took in all the scents. Tobacco. Sweet bread. Sweat and perfume. The quartet changed the tune of the music to a whimsical cadence, and Ashtin watched as the dancing couples shifted to begin a faster dance.
"Ah," Gwen said, "here he comes now."
Ashtin followed Gwen's gaze. A tall man strode towards them, passing friendly nods and words to the guests as he passed them. His presence seemed to prompt them to stand a little straighter, shift to a more flattering posture.
His blonde hair was hidden under a tophat, but still Ashtin recognized him. Here was Clu Budrene, coming towards them. Gwen swiveled around to face him, dragging Ashtin with her. Just as he stopped in front of the pair, Gwen lowered herself into a curtsey. "Bow," she whispered through gritted teeth.
Awkwardly, Ashtin followed Gwen's lead.
"My Gwendolyn," he began, his refined voice overtaking the music, "you look as lovely as always."
"Thank you, Uncle. The party is splendid."
Ashtin stared at his shiny black shoes, unable to look up to meet his eyes. She could feel his attention shift from his niece to her. "Well, hello, Miss Mentley. We meet again."
Gwen was looking at her too now.
She waited for him to call Mistress. To reprimand her. To tell her to get back downstairs immediately.
Instead, as she lifted her eyes, she saw that he was smiling down at her. He was bent forward, his hands held politely behind his back.
"Hello, sir," she said coyly.
He had a warm face, more warm than she would've expected. The skin around his eyes wrinkled when he smiled, and he had a set of the straightest, whitest teeth she'd ever seen.
"I'm glad you could make it," he told her. "I hope you enjoy it." Then he outstretched a hand and tickled the underside of Gwen's chin. She giggled, staring up at him with admiration. A moment later, he disappeared back into the crowd of guests.
Ashtin allowed herself to relax. She looked at Gwen, who was still smiling. "He's glad I could make it?"
"Oh, I asked if you could come." Her reply was almost drowned out by the music.
"And he said yes?"
"Of course, he did. Why wouldn't he?" Gwen's nonchalance puzzled her. Hadn't they devised a plan to ensure she wouldn't be noticed? And why would a man like Clu Budrene allow a lowly servant—A Minarian servant—to attend his party?
Ashtin opened her mouth to question, but Gwen stopped her short. "Come on, let's dance!"
She yanked Ashtin forward, laughing, and turned to face her. They stood behind the crowd, away from the other dancers. Gwen took Ashtin's hands in her own and began to spin. At first, Ashtin teetered, but soon enough they were spinning so fast her feet almost spun themselves. They squeezed each other's hands, feeling the force trying to break them apart. She allowed herself to laugh. She stared at Gwen's gleeful face, who began to sing what Ashtin assumed was an old nursery rhyme:
"Around and around we go,
Through the abbey and around the bend,
A hand, a hand you may lend,
Lead me around and around,
Until we fall, fall to the ground..."
The world passed around her in streaks of color and erratic motion, and she focused only on Gwen's eyes, which were squinted as she laughed. She let her head fall back, and she stared up at the ceiling. Torrents of blue and white, specks of stars spinning and spinning until they jumbled together. For a moment, Ashtin imagined herself under her tree, where she used to stare so long she thought the stars were falling towards her.
She closed her eyes and let herself be weightless. Her head began to pound, her insides curdling, her surroundings blurring around her—her body giving her every reason and warning to stop, but still she and Gwen spun. Their hands were getting sweaty now.
And finally, when neither of them could handle it any longer, they stopped themselves and bent over laughing. Ashtin nearly toppled over, Gwen teetered and tottered, but they held each other upright.
"I've never had so much fun in all my life," Ashtin managed to say between gasps for air. She looked around them, at the world still spinning. None of the guests had noticed them. They were invisible. She allowed herself to forget them. To forget that she wasn't one of them.
They danced several more ballads. Gwen taught her how to waltz, they tried to mirror the more complex ones that Gwen commented she hadn't learned from her tutor yet. They watched the young courtiers flirt with the women, and the women who gossiped, and the men who smoked their pipes and talked business over glasses of fine brandy. By the end of the night, Ashtin's hair had fallen out of the pins and stuck to her forehead with sweat. She and Gwen had kicked off their shoes long ago, and Gwen had even snuck two strawberry shortcakes for them to share. No one seemed to notice them, hidden at the back of the room like wallflowers. The guests were far too immersed in their own affairs to notice two girls. Even a Minarian girl.
And after Clu had made a toast to his guests and announced the final song, Gwen led Ashtin back to the door of the servants' quarters. They laughed giddily, like schoolgirls, their shoes held in one hand, their free arms interlocked.
When they got to the door, Gwen opened it slowly and turned to face her. Her cheeks were red and she fought to keep herself from grinning, a hand to her mouth because apparently a lady was never supposed to laugh as she was now. "You must go now," Gwen told her. "The servants will be coming back down soon."
Ashtin nodded, and stepped backwards over the threshold. "Thank you, Gwen. For tonight. Thank you."
Gwen smiled, but she lingered. There was a way about her—worry, perhaps, or apprehension.
But Ashtin would be fine. Their plan had worked. Her shoes still dangling from her hand, she skipped down the stairwell, humming a new melody. Music. The word sung inside her head. For the first time since arriving, Ashtin did not feel a weight about her. She suspended herself on her tip-toes, as if she were the bluejay, ready to fly at any moment. How long had she dreamed of dancing? Of wearing a beautiful dress and feeling like she belonged somewhere?
But, she thought as she stepped down onto the cool wooden floor in the foyer, she did not. The memory of Maud's face blossomed in front of her; how she stared at Ashtin with the dress cradled in her arms like she didn't even know her. And did she? Did anyone truly know her?
Definitely not Doon, who never understood. Who chastised her and told her it was foolish to wonder, to dream of anything beyond Cherry Hill. To hope for anything but freedom. She had tried to hate the Dordans her entire life because she was told to. She knew she should. They'd killed him, they'd burned her forests and her tree. But Doon and Maud and everyone else in Cherry Hill had given her the same look at one time or another.
Try as she might, Ashtin could never feel anything for them except curiosity. She didn't belong with them, and she didn't belong in Cherry Hill. Not with these people, not with her own people.
She stood for a moment in the vacant room. A draft chilled her bare feet. Her stomach turned from all the spinning and cake. Her eyes opening and closing slowly as she thought of sleeping. She plodded forward towards the corridor, guided only by the moonlight creeping in through the lone window.
"What in God's name are you wearing?"
Ashtin whipped around suddenly, her shoes flying from her hand. The cool air from outside slapped her in the face. A figure standing on the threshold of the back door by the hearth. Then, the lividness on Mistress's face as she stared back at her. She stood there, towering, her overcoat swallowing her. Ashtin was frozen. What could she do now? What could she possibly say to explain this?
In a single movement, Mistress lunged for Ashtin and seized her wrist. A small sound escaped her mouth as she cowered, lowering herself to the floor as if that might save her from the woman's wrath. She felt the woman's hot breath on her head. She squeezed her wrist and shook her. "Where were you! What were you doing!"
"I'm sorry, Mistress! I'm sorry!" Ashtin was already in hysterics. The tears were already coming to her eyes. The woman yanked her up and took her by the shoulders, forcing her to look into her eyes.
"Were you at the party?" she asked. The sudden calmness in her voice frightened Ashtin.
She opened her mouth, but she couldn't find the words. She couldn't lie. She couldn't explain herself.
The woman shook her hard. "I asked you a question!"
Behind them, Ashtin heard the stairs creak. It was not a servant. The footsteps started too much of a ruckus. The person was wearing boots.
Ashtin barely felt the sting of the slap on her cheek as she realized what was happening. What was about to happen to her.
"Please, Mistress," she begged, her arms slacking in the woman's strong hands. She stared into her soulless blue eyes. They looked unnatural on her, cool and icy, unlike Gwen's.
Gwen. "Gwen said I could! She said I could go!"
The woman's eyes widened. "I told you never to speak to her!" Her voice boomed throughout the servants' quarters. Could the whole house here this?
No, the music carried on above them. Ashtin did not matter.
The woman shoved her towards the island in the kitchen. Ashtin barely caught herself on the edge, her wrist still burning. A hand pressed to her back to keep her down. Another body approaching her, warm and threatening.
She sobbed like a fool. Lay her head down on the cool surface of the countertop.
The awful sound of the back of her dress being ripped open. Her skin confronted with the cold draft, bare and vulnerable. Mistress's hand pressing hard on the side of her face.
"How many, ma'am?" the guard asked in a low voice.
No hesitation. "Twenty."
No answer at first. The voices echoed in the empty room. Ashtin held in her cries. "Twenty? Ma'am, are you sure? She's only a girl."
"This is an embarrassment. She's been disobedient." The hand released her face. "She will learn."
"Very well, ma'am."
Ashtin stared at nothing. She waited. Doon had said the first time was always the worst. She squeezed her eyes shut. There was the sound of the unfastening on the guard's belt. The leather whip expanding, the end thudding against the floor. Then the test crack against his own leg to create tension.
Ashtin braced herself for the first lash.
But it did not come.
There was another ruckus on the stairs, this time more hurried.
A breathless man, standing in the foyer. "Mistress Agnes," he began breathlessly.
"Not now!" she barked.
"Master Budrene would like to see the girl in the second-floor parlor."
"What girl?"
"Her."