The White Sheep's Disguise ✓

Chapter 3

The stench of fish is stronger today than I remember it being yesterday. Every morning starts this way, with a bucket of mostly unmoving fish and a few attempting to find water to avoid final breaths. Herring, salmon, and cod. So far, at least. There's no telling how the rest of the day will turn out, what the ships will bring in during the afternoon hours.

Some days are more productive than others. The mornings start out slow and only a few baskets of fish slump onto my worktable from either a guard or a lazy fisherman. They're never in the mood for handing out instruction. All they do is catch the fish; not clean it.

That is my job. As it has been for years now.

I grip the fillet knife tightly in one hand as the sun rises to the east. We can't arrive later than the sun is in the sky, we must clock in for work before the orb of light and day clears the eastern mountains too far for any of us to reach. The docks have advanced beyond the point of a few cleaning tables under the sun—canopies and offices for foreman have slowly risen over the years, despite many trials, and now I have a comfortable spot in the shade. The perks of arriving earlier than most.

The more hours I put in, the more money I make. Measly coins that aren't enough to pay for Castiel's potions in full, but to contribute.

I reach into the woven basket of fish and hook my fingers around the lips of the first one I find. The foreman says it's bad luck to pick a live fish on the first cleaning, but I've never been superstitious. I'll save that to the fishermen that believe having a woman on board their ship makes for bad luck.

Whether dead or alive, the fish doesn't have its head for long. The moss-colored body of the cod slaps onto my wooden work table and my hand folds comfortably around the handle of the cleaver knife. I've done this too many times to wait around for another second.

The shouts of fishermen disappear, the clanking of bells from the nearby church tower dwindles into a dull roar, and the clunk of boots and buckets against the wooden docks doesn't disturb me in the slightest. I've learned to block out the rest of the world around me with a few hitches. Always be on the lookout for guards.

One slam of the cleaver knife onto the table and the fish's head severs from its body. I slide it off the table and into the empty bucket waiting on the floor. My movements go by themselves, at this point. "Here's to another day," I grumble as blood splatters onto my white apron. So much for keeping myself clean. Is anyone ever clean at the docks?

The gulls squawk on the tiled roofs of the foreman offices while overseeing the cleaning operation. Few of us are here so early in the morning, and I have yet to spot Chaska in the fray. Ever since we were little, she had trouble rising from her bed. Now, it's even worse. Though she lives in the shed next to our cottage, she can't get up in time for me to leave at a respectable time. Unlike her, I cannot stand as tall against foreman Ocanthio Cinnius. They could be kin—the same dark skin and similar protruding eyes of varying shades of autumn.

The first fish of the day is always the hardest. Luckily for me, the skin comes off easily with a simple sway of my filleting knife against the meat. I've become one of the best cleaners; the fishermen bring their buckets to my table even if I have a full load with gulls picking at the eyes of the squirming, slimy fish. I don't get paid for extra fish, only long and gruesome hours.

I haven't noticed the blisters on my palms in years. They're forever there but I block the pain by distracting myself with one fish after another.

Once each fish is cleaned, the skin removed and the meat clean; I drop the remnants of their bodies back to where they came. In a bucket of cold, salted water. The merchants and travelers, salesman of all kinds, will ship them to different corners of the kingdom. Particularly the capital, where most of our hard work goes. To the royal family—the Raven Queen and her four children. All adopted, as she likes to call it.