2.0

Dawn returns with a leisurely spread of its red-flushed fingers, leaking precariously through the moth holes on the thin sheets that hung like curtains over our windows, flanking itself across the thin lids of my eyes.

My limbs twitch beneath the blankets, blindly knocking against another warm body.

Jarres stirs in his sleep, lips parting to mutter something incomprehensible. I feel the rush of his morning breath glaze over my cheek—  sticky sweet from the ale of last night with a mellow hint of dinner— right before he rolls onto the flat of his belly and turns his face away. 

The mattress we lie on is worn to the frays, so thin sometimes I can feel the imperceptible hardness of the floor beneath it. Despite this, the comfort and warmth hold me in the bay of its arms, lulling me back beneath sleep’s surface.

“Ariadne.”

Arya’s familiar voice draws a reluctant groan from me.

“Ariadne.” This time a hand sits firmly on my shoulder, shaking me like a rag doll. “Wake up,” her grip tightens impatiently, “you have work.”

Work.

The realization of my awaiting duties and responsibilities draws another reluctant groan from me. Tiredly, I peer one eye open and gaze through the groggy shroud of sleep at my sister. She kneels beside the mattress, her face poised directly over mine, pale and sallow with fatigue.

Bright blue eyes gaze staunchly down at me with dark crescents bruising her lower lids. “It’s time to wake,” she repeats, and when I do not reply, her eyes narrow. “You know what happens if you’re late.”

I do know, but the weight in my limbs anchors me to the bed. For a fleeting reckless moment, I consider throwing all caution out the window and sleeping. It would be worth the flogging, I think.

Arya must have seen the contemplation clouding my eyes. Her lips tightened in disdain; “Wake up.” She demands, “And do it quietly, Jarres still sleeps.”

I watch as she rises from her crouched position, already dressed in her maid attire, ironed with starch along the collar and hem. “I thought you didn’t have work today.” 

Arya sits on a low wooden chair— one of the menial pieces of furniture in our room— and laces up her boots. “Mia asked if I could take her shift today.”

 “Is she-“ mouth cracking wide as a cat’s, I yawn with abandon then smack my lips, “sick?”

The revulsion on Arya’s face deepens in hue at my actions, “Must you always act so repulsive?” Her nose scrunches up as she watches my nonchalant shrug. 

“I have no man to please.”

“Honestly, Ariadne,” Her lips part to speak but shut once more with a soft sigh of resignation. The topic of my manners and self-representation had always been a headline every morning, noon, and night. Everything I did would antagonize Arya; the way I sit, the way I eat, how I handle myself in public, my manners, my speech, my indifference to the opinions of others, the company I keep. 

Sometimes I wonder if my breathing irritates her.

“Mia’s sister turned eighteen yesterday.” My listless gaze snaps to Arya.

The anxiety that I had managed to box and tuck neatly away springs open with a vengeance, and she sees my disquieted expression before I can school it to a mask of nonchalance. 

Arya’s gaze drops to the skirt she wears, the corner of her lips twitching upwards as if connected to a string and puppeteer,  “She was taking her to court for registration.”

My chest squeezes at her words. “Oh,” I say, wishing we could change subjects. “May the gods be with her.”

“The gods are with us all.” Arya corrects with a final look in my direction. The irritation in her eyes had dissolved to a hardened affection and beneath it, subtle smug. “When is your birthday again?”

A flush stains my cheeks at the realization that she was purposefully trying to get under my skin. “You already know when it i-“

“Three days.” Arya interrupts her gaze drawn inwards with some piece of knowledge only she knows. Silence creeps into the room on slippered feet, the weight of my age a burden on its shoulders that slowly slips onto my chest, pressing me into the bed. “Mia’s sister is beautiful,” Arya says while drawing on a knitted sweater and running her fingers through her flaxen blond hair, “she will be married off.”

“Mmh,” I mutter audibly, already disentangling myself from the insidious webs of this conversation. The truth was not a novelty to me. Everyone knew of females fates in the town. 

If you were beautiful or pretty enough to draw the wandering eyes of men and the occasional woman, you would be registered beneath the ‘awaiting maidens for marriage.' Beauty had a price, and some men were willing to offer handfuls of silver for such girls.

Those with mediocre looks still stood chances of being wed off.

However, girls born with deformities, physical maladies, or bastards were never placed for marriage. Often than not masters and mistresses would claim them as their servants and maids to keep their homes clean, to care for their children, cook, and sometimes warm their beds. They would be pierced in the ear— a sign of ownership— by their owners and serve beneath them for as long as they lived.

In my eyes, there is no difference between marriage and slavery. Both are lives accursed to servitude. 

“You are pretty enough,” Arya’s voice draws my attention from the ceiling which I had fixated on while unconsciously pulling at the fraying thread of the blanket. She is watching me now, her eyes scrutinizing my facial features down to my body hidden beneath the covers. “I’m sure a suitor will want to marry you.”

I snort, “No need dear sister. The mines await me.”

Arya purses her lips in clear contempt but speaks nothing of it. Picking her bag, she stands before the cracked mirror and glances over herself once more before heading for the door, “Remember,” she says, hand curled over the doorknob, her gaze serious. “Wake up.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Once the door shuts, I roll onto my side facing Jarres who still sleeps.

The back of his neck is burnt to a polished bronze from toiling beneath the blazing sun. His hair was long and black, stiff with coal and sweat. The dark shade juxtaposes against the valley of his spine which is a fairer color, dotted with charming moles— a parody of constellations—  and aged scars from his first days in the quarry.

I watch his back rise and fall, steady with the smooth, shallow tread of sleep. The silence and warmth wrap tendrils around my body, forming a cocoon that slowly begins to lull me back beneath the dark waters of sleep when noise disrupts it.

The sound is similar to a cauldron bubbling over a fire, and for a moment confusion fogs me until my stomach stirs once more, cramping as if a fist holds it. I had skipped dinner last night, and the lizard meal left me barely satiated. 

Taking comfort in the notion that today was my night to eat, I slip noiselessly from the bed and pad barefoot across the room where a basin of water with a clear film of dust lay atop it. Lathering hard soap onto a washcloth, I scrub my forearms, face and legs then pay it down with a thin cold towel. 

Sprinkling baking soda on a cloth I wipe my teeth clean then scrape my tongue with the bristled end of a chewed stick, apply a thick layer of oil onto my face to prevent the harsh winds from cracking my skin, and draw on my clothes for the day.

Drawing on my boots, I consider waking him up to bid him goodbye then decide otherwise; if he had not stirred whilst I got ready, he must be exhausted.

Silently shutting the door behind me and walk along the dark stretched hallway. On either side of me are similar doors, each housing families or individuals in one room. The sound of babies wailing at these ungodly hours, drunk men shouting at their wives and wives beating their children mixes in the air, pressing in on me from either side like lungs breathing in.

I pick up the pace, taking the creaking steps two at a time until I step out into the light gratefully as the final entrance door slams shut. I breathe in, feeling the clear, sharp curves of air outline my throat.

It is cold today. The sky darkened with thick clouds, the scent of rain, and a brewing thunderstorm like an afterimage that parts as I walk through it. 

I pass sunburned, weary-looking farmers heading to the market. Their donkeys labor under wicker baskets containing produce meant to be sold, their hooves clipping on the footpath. I know most of the farmers, but I put my head down and avert my eyes for the rest of the way.

My job is situated just before the market. A large white-washed mansion with neatly manicured lawns and a handful of servants to tend it. Inside lives a man I scarcely saw but heard he was a general that worked in one of the armies outside the town, his wife whose face was an eerie white from thick layers of powder that cracks around her dark eyes and blood-red lips, and three children; Mark, Matthew, Mildred. All manipulative children tortured, degraded, and humiliated their servants.

Fortunately, I work in the pigsty and our paths scarcely crossed.

“Guess the gift,” A familiar figure falls in step with mine, the length of a forearm brushing against mine. I groan to mask the ghost of a smile tugging my lips. 

“Food,” I say.

Li smiles and shakes his head revealing blackened blunt teeth like extinguished matchsticks. He smells starkly of the sewers, possibly where he spent the night. “You have one more chance, take it seriously.”

I sigh as we round the stables and near the pigsty. Pausing at the waist-high wooden gate, I turn to my friend and scrutinize him with mock contemplation. Shallow ringworms circulate his scalp like a royal crown. 

“You know,” I start, pointedly staring at his flaky scalp and patchy skin, “you can always bathe in my home.” 

Li tosses my words aside with a shrug. “Guess, Ariadne.”

“Fine fine,” drawing in my lower lip, I suckle it in thought then speak with a slow smile. “Food.”

He groans, “Honestly, you’re no—“

“The purpose of a surprise is in its meaning… surprise.” My eyes slip past his shoulder towards the stable then him with an arched brow, “shouldn’t you be working?”

Li clicks his tongue and places his forearms on the wooden fence, leaning onto it as I unlatch the gate and step in. “The mistress is still asleep, no one will know.”

“Li shirking his duties,” I muse while reaching for a shovel. “I’d like to think I’m rubbing off on you.”

“You are, and I do not like it.”

“Then work.”