These Gilded Seas

Chapter Thirteen: A Red Sunrise

By the time I make it to the palace, I'm exhausted and the sun is gone. The city behind me has fallen into the sleepy, lilac hue of twilight. Now, the streets are empty and quiet.

My chest still stings from the mother's assumptions and anger. I've never been scolded so sharply. Not even by Papa. And over such an innocent game...

Let that serve as a reminder that I'll never understand humans.

Fundamentally and genetically, we're worlds apart.

Natural enemies.

As I approach the palace, the first thing I notice is the score of guards standing on the freshly manicured grass. Each of them wears the same uniform, one identical to the others I saw at the gate: black, loose-fitting pants tucked into black boots and a white shirt that clings to their arms. None of them wear armor, but they all have long swords strapped to their belts. A few have extra weapons tied along their chests and backs, but the sword is standard throughout.

It doesn't take long to weigh my options. I can't go up there; I wouldn't stand a chance. So far from the water, my magic feels distant. It's still there, thank the Divine, but using it would require more energy than I have at the moment. Plus, one girl against ten, twenty guards?

It would never work.

I'm also not a good enough liar to just saunter past them like I belong here.

No, I'm going to need to find another door.

With one hand on the dagger at my hip, I slip around the outer wall. If Eero's palace is anything like Papa's, there's a back door around here somewhere. Servant quarters, a cook's entrance, a back garden, something.

The noises and smells of the kitchen find me before I see it. I begin to walk faster, mouth watering.

Ahead, light filters out of an open wooden door in the stone wall. That's where the noise is coming from; it has to be. I stand back for a few minutes, waiting for someone to walk out. When they don't, though, I edge forward and crane my neck around the corner.

It's a servant's entrance.

The stretch of yard that lies in front of me is not as well groomed as the front yard. Tables are scattered across the balding patches of grass; nearly-broken chairs sit haphazardly around them. A long row of perfectly white aprons hang from a clothesline overhead. Shouted orders drift out from a door on the other side of the yard—something about dinner and hurrying.

Suddenly, two girls in long, gray dresses duck out of the door holding piles of white plates. They rush over to a trough of water and gently place the dishes in. Without even rolling up their sleeves, both of them thrust their arms in and begin scrubbing rapidly. They don't even dare to whisper as they work.

The head of staff must be terrifying.

Before I can duck back into the shadows, another woman storms out of the palace.

"Lise! Britta! Hurry up with those. Dinner's in ten minutes, and you should have had those clean yesterday."

"Yes, ma'am," one of the girls yelps, and she begins scrubbing with renewed fervor.

But the other girl glances over her shoulder bravely. "Madam Amaia, we spent all evening scrubbing the patio! We had no time."

The older woman—Madam Amaia, apparently—bristles at the girl's nerve. Her shoulders hitch up to her ears, and she grabs two fistfuls of her apron.

"You know what I hear?" Both girls freeze at her quiet hiss.

I know that tone. It's icy fire—the same tone Mama used to use on us when I would stay out too late sparring with the guards or exploring with Finn. My eyes widen.