A Court of Chaos and Confusion - An ACOTAR Rewrite

Chapter 33

I tried not to look at my left arm as I scrubbed at the floors of the hallway. The ink – a blue-black in the light – was a cloud upon my thoughts, and those were bleak enough even without knowing I'd sold myself to Rhysand. 

I couldn't even look at the eye on my palm. I had an absurd, creeping feeling that it watched me.

I dunked a large brush into the bucket the red-skinned guards had thrown into my arms. I could barely comprehend them through their mouths full of long yellow teeth, but when they gave me the brush and bucket and shoved me into a long hallway of white marble, I understood easily enough.

"If it's not washed and shining by supper," one of them had said, its teeth clicking as it grinned, "we're to tie you to the spit and give you a few good turns over the fire."

With that, they left. I had no idea when supper was, so I began to frantically wash. The water they'd given me was filthy, and the more I scrubbed the floor, the dirtier it became. When I went to the door to ask for a bucket of clean water, I found it locked. Of course there would be no help.

My back already ached like fire, and I hadn't been scrubbing the marble hall for more than thirty minutes, a rainbow of brown left in the brush bristles' wake.

An impossible task – a task to torment me. 

The spit – perhaps that was the source of the constant screaming in the dungeons. Would a few turns on the spit burn me badly enough to force me into another bargain with Rhysand? How many more weeks of my life did I have to give?

I cursed, throwing the brush into the dirty water, refusing to make a bigger mess than I'd already made. I buried my face in my wet hands to try and think, lowering my left hand when I realized the eye was pressed against my cheek.

I gulped down steadying gasps of air. There had to be a rational way to do this; there had to be some old wives' trick. 

The spit – tied to a spit like a roast pig.

I tried the brush again, going over the same dirty spot until my hands throbbed. It looked like someone had spilled mud; the dirt was actually turning into mud the harder I scrubbed it. I nearly screamed in frustration. 

There had been red lines covering that girl's naked body on the wall – what instrument of torture had they come from? My hands trembled, and I set down the brush. I could take down a giant worm, but washing a floor – that was the impossible task.

A door clicked open somewhere down the hall, and I shot to my feet. An auburn head peered at me. I sagged with relief. Lucien –

Not Lucien. The face turned toward me was female – and unmasked. She looked perhaps a bit older than Amarantha, but her porcelain skin was exquisitely colored, graced with the faintest blush of rose along her cheeks. Had the red hair not been indication enough, when her russet eyes met mine, I knew who she was.

I bowed my head to the Lady of the Autumn Court, and she inclined her chin slightly. I supposed that was honor enough, especially for a lowly human. "For giving her your name in place of my son's life," she said, her voice as sweet as sun-warmed apples. She must have been in the crowd that day. She pointed at the bucket with a long, slender hand. "My debt is paid." She disappeared through the door she'd opened, too quickly for me to extend my thanks, and I could have sworn I smelled roasting chestnuts and crackling fires in her wake.

It was only after the door shut that I realized I'd been hiding my left arm behind my back. 

I looked in my bucket and knelt beside it, dipping my fingers into the water. They came out clean. I shuddered, allowing myself a moment to slump over my knees before I dumped some of the water on the floor and watched it wash away the muck.