THE day I was taken, I was 7 years old. A girl too small for her age with dirty blonde hair and groups of freckles across her cheeks – too random, too big or too small to be pretty. I lived in St. Monica orphanage, nearest orphanage to the very catholic town they found me in.
I was never told why I was left as a baby. Why my parents didn't want me, even if my parents where still alive. I guess I wouldn't ever find out now. The sisters who raised me, briefly, didn't talk about the past, they just reminded us of the sins we must hold in our hearts to be abandoned.
The sun was hot that day, I remember that, so I had taken shelter in the small cave a few miles into my journey to the only shop near to the orphanage. On the daily run with a shopping list tightly tucked into my right dirty hand, the sleeves of my shirt hanging loosely off my bones, I stopped, out of the sun, just for a moment. A moment that would cost me my life.
I walked briskly down the narrow corridor, my hands grasping tightly to a locked metal box. It was cold to the touch, but not unwelcome on a summer's day like this. I ducked under pieces of wood jutting out from both sides of the walls, my eyes darting through the dusk looking for the tell-tale signs of a door, a door to lead me onto the castle's main corridors. I had to get the door closest to the room I was looking for, or I was toast. Girls like me shouldn't be wandering round the castle, unless they wanted to be lunch. Literally.
The black uniform pulled tightly across my chest as I walked, floating up at the back, past the highest points of my legs. I hadn't had a new uniform since I was 16. Understandably, 4 years later, I had managed to grow quite a bit, despite the rations they fed us on. My long legs now flew out from underneath the dress, tight across everywhere. I despised the attention; I knew the Mothers have been keeping an eye on my growth. It was a mercy I was still a plain little girl in my face, grubby hair tight in a high pony, or I doubt I would still have my life by now. I would have been front line. Serving our masters instead of my little life as porter, maid, cook and everything else forced upon me.
I slowed my pace, the markings on the doors increasing steadily. 1,003; 1,004; 1,005. Sweat beaded across my forehead, and my breaths came out hot and fast.
I pushed my palm against the marking of the door I needed, turning my wrist to the right, when I heard it.
Voices.
Our masters.
I paused in my effort in opening the door, holding my breath in, forehead pushed slightly against the wood. I begged any god listening, to make them move on. To have them carry on walking. If they've stopped to talk, they'll notice me soon enough, and carry on so I can get on with my job. Right? I was suddenly unsure.
A voice wormed its way through the woodwork, the voice so soft my ears could barely catch it.
"Listen, there's nothing you can do, it must be done." The voice was quiet - musical. The voice almost reached into your mind, luring you in, capturing you in its grasp. There was a pause, and then the man through the door spoke again.
"We're at war, Prince. You will connect the two clans."
Another voice answered the first, clearly irritated, although it wasn't hard to tell that this voice didn't capture you, or sing its way into your heart, it was a warning. Gruff, and harsh. Dark, even.
"You needn't tell me of my responsibilities, boy." The strain on the word 'my' was enough to make me push back from the door. I didn't know who this new voice was talking to, but I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of it. Ever. "Don't take this new position as an invitation to start barking orders at me, I take orders off my father only. I will wed the Sacchi girl, and when the times right, we will end the Sacchi clan, but when I decide."
The first voice chuckled, unafraid. "Forget about her then, my Prince." It was announced, boldly. "Your woman will do you no good, and she cannot stay whilst the Sacchi girl is your bride."
The second voice drew in a breath, sharply. "How-"
The voice was cut off. Clunks from the floor travelled down the outside corridor, a staff against the marble flooring. Feet shuffled to outside the door, and stopped, and old croaky voice followed the footsteps.
"Fine afternoon, my Prince." There was a pause. "Advisor." The old voice added, without haste, as if just noticing there was two people. The gravelly voice continued, "Do I need to put both you boys back into training?! I have nearly 800 years on the pair of you and still my senses are sharper than you two cubs! You may want to practise your skills for your next conversation, as we have a guest."
There was a pause and I would have sworn to anyone afterwards that even the wind stopped. The world stood still, the silence deafening.
And then I was no longer pressed against the hot wood.
I found myself laid on my stomach, on the cold marble, staring at two pairs of shoes and a pair of sandals.
On the Master's corridor.
Shit.