A bed, a candle, and a washbasin with icy water. That is all I can claim as mine in the large, rectangular stone room buried within the castle bowels. Single torches bracketed to the wall act as the secondary source of light. The primary being a grand fireplace carved into the wall. The lack of windows unnerves me more than I anticipated.

This room is one of many, separated by rank, and holding near thirty women per room. The beds line along the perimeter, coated with only a cotton blanket and a second one of threadbare; separated by a small, wooden trunk acting as the nightstand.

Apparently, I was lucky to have claimed the corner bed. The stones help in keeping warm or cool in the varying seasons, as well as keep better track of my possessions. Helga mentioned it with such casualness that it took me a moment to process it.

Apparently, things go missing around the castle – mostly among the servants as only the bold or stupid dare to steal from the Lady and her daughters. I didn't think there would be such petty rivalry in a place such as this, but I suppose the humankind will do anything to preserve oneself. I proved that when I made my first kill when hunting.

The good news is with my time of arrival, the servants' quarters are empty. So I make quick work of hiding my coin purse – though not the most favorable place, I'm left with little options and time before I'm due for dinner.

Helga did give me a tour of the castle as commanded, but I was so taken aback by the beauty and intricacy that I could only count the turns we made as she brought me up and down and around and through the different levels before into the dark of the servants' quarters. The upper echelons of the castle are exquisitely decorated with twisting hallways lacquered in ornate golden gildings of vines, expensive furniture and velvet carpeting lining the checkered marble floors, particularly within its foyers. Tall columns and pillars support the high domed ceilings of many chambers and are filled with statues, paintings, and crests baring the history of the Dimitrescu bloodline; fireplaces in these rooms dually serve as prominent centerpieces.

As I plop on my poor excuse of a mattress, I take a deep breath and roll my ankles. I'd never trekked for so long before. Trips to the woods usually involved extensive breaks, lying in wait while the prey meandered by. This constant moving will be a hindrance for me. But I will learn. I will adapt, easily.

I'm still reeling from what Helga had said after meeting Lady Dimitrescu. You survived longer than most of the others. I shiver at the thought. Some women were so disinteresting that Dimitrescu just killed them outright. And we as a village can't do shit about it, because revolting against Dimitrescu means facing the wrath of the other lords, and worse . . . Mother Miranda. So the bitch is free to do as she pleases, disposing of her servants as if they were no more than old toys.

I'd always thought the whispers were just rumors, until the letters started coming in. each bearing similar statements, if only modified ever so slightly. Then the conspirators started murmuring throughout the village; not just of Dimitrescu, but what goes on with the rest of the lords and their properties. They usually keep to their own, Mother Miranda always protecting us and keeping a tight leash on the four lords. But recently, it seems like she's been allowing more freedom. And that is the worst thought of all.

The more I think about it, Dimitrescu might be the safest bet when looking for well-paid work. There's no way in this life or the next that I would set foot even around Lord Moreau's reservoir; Heisenberg's factory speaks for itself of why I won't go, and Ms. Beneviento . . .the idea of those porcelain dolls just watching me is more unnerving than a living being.

There's a knock on the door and I spring to my feet, wiping my hands on my dress, now covered by an apron that Helga gave me just after the tour. Sure enough the housekeeper steps inside with another assessing gaze. "Are you ready?"

I nod, still wiping my hands. "Yes, ma'am." I use the opportunity to brush my hands over the pocket in my dress that still holds the knife I slipped in. I haven't dared to take it out.

She at least allows me once last look around my bed to ensure everything is hidden to my liking before I follow her out. As we climb the steps, another common house fly buzzes past my ear – two of them, actually. I swat them away with a chirp of annoyance. How did they even get down here? There's no windows.

I follow Helga up through the castle to the main floor and through the dining room into the kitchen. I only get a brief glimpse of one large chair poised on side of the table, and then three smaller ones with their backs to the double doors leading into the castle courtyard.

The one nuisance to scullery duty is that the kitchen is warm. Hot, even. The great brick oven and hearth are blazing, amplifying the great smells, but also tangling it with the sweat of the constantly moving servants. In winter, this place will be like a haven. For now, with the two large windows along the right wall, the place is sweltering.

The place is already a madhouse; many of the servants nimbly dodging one another, balancing large trays on their shoulders, or pushing carts. The chatter between the chef and acolytes, combined with the chopping of knives, the clinking of dishes already dumped in the bubbly sink all merge with the bubbling of pots into a cacophony of organized chaos, veiled with the many delicious smells of the food they create. Towards the back, fresh carcasses of boar and deer and chickens and duck hang while their blood drains in large, wide pots. The room beyond that can only be the pantry, or the chef's bedroom. Several other samples of meat hang overhead next to massive bundles of garlic and thyme.

Tubs of vegetables, soups, fish, chicken, and salads vanish as soon as they are placed on the table, scooped up by servants and then whisked away up the stairs and into the dining hall. Jugs and pitchers of water, wine, and ale are hauled up.

"All this just to feed four people?" I ask, trying to keep up with Helga. I barely dodge a woman carrying a piping hot tub of a creamy soup. Its color reminds me of apples.

Helga says, without looking back and without a pause in her step, "The Mistress and her daughters have a rather, robust appetite."

Once Helga steps inside, several acolytes at the wooden table that split the kitchen in half, jerk their heads up, then dipping them into somewhat of a bow. At least, what they can manage before resuming to chopping onions and monitoring what smells like bread.

"Kathryn," Helga's voice pierces through the noise of the kitchen, almost quieting it – as if the very fire doesn't dare speak over her. Though there is authority in her voice, it's not a harsh bark, but more rather a smooth crooning. A voice of someone who's very being has been honed like steel through years of grit work, yet raised with grace and poise. Who doesn't need to shout to get attention, just her mere presence commands it. It almost reminds me of Luiza, but . . . sharper, more aware despite her dulled eyes.

The hunched old woman tending to the bubbling pots on the hearth finishes her stirring before turning to look at us. By the gods, I'm hungry. That bread smells divine. And what is in those pots?

Helga gestures to me, "Your new scullery maid."

The chef – Kathryn – shifts her chestnut-brown eyes to me and gives me a no-nonsense once-over with pinched brows. Disapproving and doubtful.

"Erika," I say, lifting my chin. "My name is Erika."

The old woman hobbles forward, wiping her gnarled hands on a crisp white apron. Her brown woolen dress is simple and worn—a bit threadbare in places—and she seems to have some trouble with her left knee, but her white hair is tied back neatly from her pale face. "Ever work in a kitchen?"

Despite all the hunting I've done, with the menial preparing and seasoning I've had to learn, I suppose it would be a yes.

"Well, I hope you're a fast learner and quick on your feet," she spites. "This isn't some home kitchen. This is a work environment."

"I'll do my best." I grit.

"Damn straight you will. Or the Mistress will have your head, then mine."

Apparently that is all Helga needs to hear before she stalks off, her footsteps silent, every movement smooth and laced with poise and restraint. A queen without a throne – or perhaps she'd been one in her past life. Just watching her, I know she must have been raised in a middle-class family. Enough status to warrant such a domineering presence. I'd hate to wonder what transpired in her life to wind up in this place.

Kathryn hurries to the oven, grabbing a long, flat wooden shovel from the wall to pull a brown loaf out of the oven. Introduction over. Good. No wishy-washy nonsense or smiling or any of that.

This is a place of business, not comradery.

"That's Gretta," the old woman says, pointing to one of the youths at the worktable. She gives me surprisingly a broad smile, her mop of fire-red curls loosely tied into a braid down her back. She has to be a few years younger than me at least, and hasn't yet grown into her curvy frame. She doesn't have properly fitting clothes, either, given how loose the sleeves of her ordinary green homespun dress are. "You both will be sharing a lot of the scullery work. Then I'll have you serving with the others. You work in this kitchen, you're going to learn all the stations. You'll start with small trays, simple assemblies. I'll be damned if I lose my head because of some newfound thot who can't keep her balance."

The words are barbed, yes, but it's her movements that make me bite my tongue. The quiet babbling, the constant moving, the impulsive snaps at imperfection –

Skittish. No better than a rabbit looking this way and that, waiting for the next predator to strike. Constantly on alert, constantly paranoid.

It makes pity puddle in my chest. I can't really blame her – this is just a . . . different adaptation than Helga. And if she's been kept alive this long, she's obviously doing something right. And I sure as hell won't be the reason to fuck it up.

"It's absolutely miserable," Gretta chirps, sniffling loudly at the reek of the onions she is chopping, "but you'll get used to it. Though maybe not the waking up before dawn part." Kathryn shoots the young woman a glare, and Gretta amends, "At least the company's good." When the old woman looks away, Gretta turns to me and adds, "At least when you find the right people."

I give her my best attempt at a civilized nod before scanning the faces of the kitchen. Gretta takes a few minutes to introduce me to some of the people, but most don't cast a look in my direction. The only sign of acknowledgement being their nodding heads.

And isn't that a lovely change from the usual stares and disgust and whispers that have marked the past two years of my life. In the kitchen, chopping vegetables and washing pans, I am absolutely, gloriously nobody.

I catch Gretta studying my hands and hold them out, scars and all. "Already mangled and ruined, so you won't find me weeping over broken nails."

"Mother keep me. What happened?" But even as the young woman speaks, I can see her putting the pieces together – see her deciphering my thin form, taking in my too-distinct collarbone, and the shadows under my eyes. My care of appearance was lost long ago once starvation settled into my empty stomach.

"Hunting will do that to a person." The recognition ignites in her peridot green eyes, and there is enough pity that for a heartbeat, I contemplate biting her head off. So I turn my attention to the old woman. "Give me whatever work you want. Any work."

I want sore muscles and blistered hands and to fall into bed so exhausted I won't dream, won't think, won't feel much of anything.

Kathryn clicks her tongue. Then she says, "Just finish the onions. Gretta, you mind the bread. I've got to start on the casseroles."

I take up the spot that Gretta has already vacated at the end of the table, passing the giant hearth as I did so — a mammoth thing of ancient stone, carved with symbols and odd faces. At the center of its chimney, a picture of Mother Miranda sits, haloed in icy blue light, her pale-green eyes piercing through her golden mask and headpiece. I look away and try to ignore the shiver running up my spine in this heated kitchen. I could've sworn the photo watched me.

The dull knife is a nightmare when it came to chopping mushrooms, scallions, and an endless avalanche of potatoes. No one, except perhaps Kathryn with her all-seeing eyes, seemed to notice my perfect slices. Someone merely scooped them up and tossed them in a pot, then told me to cut something else.

Even with the insanity of the past hour, Gretta had managed to chat up almost every person who came into the kitchen, her voice and laughter floating over the clanging pots and barked orders.

It felt so . . . wrong, to have someone like her in this place. So beautiful and kind and welcoming and cheery, like a flower blooming in a killing field.

After finishing my last set of potatoes, Kathryn's voice clangs through the noise. "Erika! Stand in the hall and get ready for those dessert plates!"

I look to Gretta to my left. She cringes and I see hasty encouragement in her eyes. I set the knife down and wipe my hands on my apron before heading towards the hallway leading into the dining room.

Two other girls stand idly waiting, their hands folded in their fronts. No more than two years younger than me, one of them has her chocolate brown hair pulled back against the nape of her neck, her crystalline blue eyes help to draw attention to her smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. The other has a beautiful deep tan skin, her hair like liquid midnight, braided and wrapped about the crown of her head. Her onyx eyes framed by lovely lashes of her almond-shaped eyes.

I caught their names around the kitchen – Nadine and Bianca. I can't help but blink in awe at Bianca's delicate beauty – the slight sharpness of her features, the smoothness of her skin.

Nadine nods to me, the light hardening her freckles. After my attempt to return her gesture, she takes the first tray without further interaction. The second is handed off to Bianca, and I am last.

My tray consists of small cakes and pies, while Nadine has bowls of colorful fruit. Bianca receives a tray of wine, including a very ornate bottle decorated in intricate silver flowers. I try to read the label: Sanguis Virginis. Maiden's Blood? A bit macabre.

Since Kathryn wasn't able to give me even the briefest lessons of walking and balancing, I do my best to assess their posture and footwork while trying to remember my own when I go on hunts. The movement of my feet as I prowl, only at a quickened pace. I place the tray on my right shoulder – seemingly dominant for side as displayed by the others – and keep my pace.

I've barely had time to process the fact that I'll be meeting Dimitrescu's daughters, but my stomach doesn't sink nearly as much as it had when meeting the Lady herself. Likely because she'll have a fair reign over her daughters. In the end, they listen to her; less they be met with her own form of cruel retribution. I doubt Lady Dimitrescu is beyond disciplining her daughters.

Bianca holds the door open with her foot while I pass through, and I nearly stumble when I behold the three women sitting across from Lady Dimitrescu. No on in the kitchen had bothered to say who is who, so I try my best to take in the most prominent details: a blonde with a ruby necklace, a black-haired beauty with a topaz necklace, and a sleek red head with an emerald necklace, each wrapped closely at their throats.

The first trait they all share is the pure gold in their eyes, and yet, differently hued between the three sisters. The second being the pale skin they each share, as if they've never seen sunlight. They're nothing like the portrait I saw upon my first arrival, all swathed in black gowns with hoods draped across their shoulders. The bodices are all close-fitting, showing their elegant curves and full breasts.

I won't deny they are all so devastatingly beautiful. A rare, staggering beauty that would make all men lose common sense. Offset by the odd smell of carrion in this room. Like someone brought in a large roadkill.

I clap my mouth shut and force myself to follow Bianca as we round the table, serving each of the women. I don't know how long the two of them have worked at this castle, but they've mastered their fear enough that I don't see them trembling as much as I feel like I am. I take steadying breaths and calm my mind, much like when I'm about to take aim at prey. I lift my chin and even my shoulders as I lower the tray upon approaching Lady Dimitrescu.

She looks down at me, and I bow my head low as Helga had told me. "Ah," she seems to purr, "there you are. I was wondering when I'd see you, Erika."

Her daughters all laugh, trickling giggles and bellowing howls. It trickles up my spine like spider legs. I'm caught off-guard. I honestly didn't expect her to acknowledge me further. But I'm better off attempting to respond than stay silent.

Feeble and obedient, I remind myself.

I keep my head low. "My apologies if you were waiting for me, My Lady."

"Oh, not at all, dear." I tighten my grip on the tray when I feel her gloved hand touch its surface. "I should've expected that old crone to keep you stuffed back there. We've been searching for you all evening."

I hold back on asking why she didn't just request for me. She is the head of this fucking castle. Her word is law here.

Her words send a wave of tension through me, and I say, "Miss Kathryn was just making sure I understand the routine. She wants everything perfect for you, My Lady."

I don't really know why I bother helping her, but then again, I don't have a reason not to. Lady Dimitrescu hums, seemingly pleased with this answer. I wait a moment to see if she'll take anything else. Nothing. So I move on as Bianca starts to pour the three women a glass.

I round the table and come to the blonde of the sisters. She looks up at me and gods damn me my mouth pops open slightly in a small O as I behold her beauty.

My eyes first snap to her forehead, where an intricate mark is tattooed onto her skin. Her golden hair matches her eyes, flowing from the hood of her gown and tracing the outline of her lovely jaw. Her full lips are a berry red, eyes slightly uptilted with a pert nose.

She arcs a brow and lifts her chin every so slightly, a smirk crawling across those lips. Remembering what I'm supposed to be, and who she is, I bow my head as I present the tray. "My Lady."

"Hello, sweet thing." Her voice is soft like a harp, smooth like fresh honey. Her hand, bound in a leather glove, takes three desserts from the tray.

I wait another moment before moving onto the next daughter.

I only glimpse her raven-black hair and full, grinning lips before my head is slammed into the table.

Pain slams through my face, light splintering my vision. My feet ache as the tray I was carrying drops onto my foot, glasses scattering and silverware spilling.

My brain routes the pain to my hair as the second daughter has it gripped by the braided headband across my crown. Though I try to stop them, tears of pain well.

I'm scrambling to think of what I did wrong, what I might've done to insult them, until that trickling laughter moves close to my ear. "You, I don't know." She croons with a lover's whisper, her finger tracing so gently down my cheek. "But I'd like to."

I hisses at the proprietary touch, baring my teeth as I twists my head to look at the fucking bitch. She's almost as tall as I am, her features smooth and inviting with clean, elegant lines and her long loosely curled hair falling from her hood like an ebony waterfall. Her round, golden eyes glitter as her grip tightens on my hair. Nadine and Bianca are frozen in place, eyes wide with shock and palpable fear.

I'm lucky that the daughter missed her plate of food – or the fork, or the knife – and I place my palms on the table to try and provide some stability.

My shaking as worsened, my breath sawing in and out of me as I try to find words, try to blink past the stars in my eyes.

I have to do something to get out of this. Plead, cry, fight – anything.

"Cassandra," the Lady croons, completely unphased by her daughter's behavior. In fact, none of them seem remotely surprised. She lazily sips wine from her glass, "don't torment the girl on her first day."

Her daughter laughs. A crows caw. "I can't help it, Mother. She comes in looking this delicious" – her words are emphasized as she licks her tongue along the outer shell of my ear – "I just have to have a taste."

I gasp and an odd sound escapes my lips: a combination of a moan and a whimper. The third daughter gives a manic laugh. I dare the slightest push on my hands, trying to lift my head, only to have her grip harder; tears spilling over as I grit my teeth to suppress a scream.

Breath. Breathe. Breathe.

Another laugh from Cassandra. "Oh, a feisty one. I like that."

Her words are laced with glorious domination.

Her breath smells of wine and carrion as I feel her tongue lick its way up my cheek, following the trail of salt from my tear. I bite back my roar of defiance. If I can move my right arm just a few inches, I can throw her off balance and grab the knife . . . The edge of the table digs into my stomach, and fizzing, boiling rage turns my face scarlet.

"Enough, Cassandra!" Lady Dimitrescu barks. Everyone in the room flinches.

The grip on my hair disappears and I take a deep breath, my heart pounding in my temples. I peel my cheek from the table but keep my head low until it stops pounding.

"You can play with your food later."

As I rise, I frowns at the spilled wine and toppled food, and at the clank of the silverware echoing through the silent room. My hair has become a bit undone, more strands falling to my shoulder and around my face.

I won't be humiliated by anything, least of all being lewd and pathetic. Gathering my pride, I roll my shoulders and lifts my head.

I have no choice but to ignore the third daughter as I kneel down and start to gather the ruined desserts. I can feel the third daughter's eyes upon me, Cassandra's shadow creeping over my back.

"I didn't think a little thing like you could carry a try like that! You're so tiny and frail! Get some more weight on you, and you'll be fun to play with." Cassandra chimes, but her words are anything but pleasant.

"Don't hog them all, Cassandra!" The third daughter pipes with laughter. "Give the rest of us time to play!"

I suppose I should be grateful they're not pissed about the ruined carpet, but for all know, they could've stained this carpet with so much blood it has seeped into the castle stones by now.

I swiped up a good portion of spilt desserts and splattered frosting when my hair is pulled again, this time by the third daughter, angling my head towards her.

With a heavy sigh, her tongue licks my other cheek. I grit my teeth and focus on keeping the tray steady. This is probably some trick to throw me off and make me mess up. I won't fail. I cannot fail.

I think of Lacy sitting on Elena's lap as they cuddle by a warm fire. I think of my little sister's smile and laugh; I picture her running around a luscious green yard full of daisies and petunias and roses and lavenders.

For her. All of this is for her.

I chose this for her.

I can endure.

The redheaded daughter grips my chin with one hand, her other still gripping my hair as she turns my head. Her teeth nibble along my neck, biting at the soft spot of skin just beneath my ear, right over my pulse.

I recoil at the pain, though my breath comes out in a gasp. The hand grips tighter and I grit my teeth, clenching my eyes. It's better than opening them to find Lady Dimitrescu bored and annoyed.

More swarming laughter.

"Get the blood pumping and it's so much sweeter!" Cassandra taunts.

I should've known better. I should've expected a women like this to not give a single shit about her daughters' behavior and what they do to others.

I'd been a fool to think I could tolerate this shit.

A foolish hope of a desperate, naive girl who sought to make money quickly. I'd have better luck selling myself on the streets like my mother –

A pit yawns open beneath my feet, so deep that I have to move lest it swallow me whole.

I try to scramble back, and this time, the daughter's hand lets go. The first one, the blonde says, "They're no fun if you break them so soon, you two. Give them time to settle before writhing their skin."

Call it pity or a miracle, but I don't question it as I rise to stand. I don't bother touching my hair or my neck or my ear. And with Nadine and Bianca as still as deer, I'm forced to choke out, "Will you be needing anything else?"

I don't bother making eye contact with any of them despite my soul roaring to glare with defiance. Let them see they haven't won. But I can't risk putting a target on my back this early. I just need to stick close to Helga and Kathryn and I might just survive this.

Lady Dimitrescu waves me off without a word.

I don't ask again.

I turn and lead the three of us back into the mostly unaffected kitchen. The back of some of the workers seems stiffer now, their faces forcefully blank as I step inside, mangled hair and neck and all. I probably have a bruise. But I won't let them see me cry. I won't be weak.

I have to be strong.

I can be strong . . . right?

I hone my anger a set the tray on the table and approach Kathryn as she pulls another couple loaves of bread out of the oven. She looks over her shoulder and me and doesn't even lift a brow.

"Anything else you need of me?" I stifle out.

Kathryn faces me as she dusts her hands on her apron. She eyes me over once. Twice. Then nods towards the table. "Finish chopping some onions and garlic. I'm brewing a stew overnight."

I move over to station at the table with wooden steps. Everyone else seems to stiff that I almost snarl at them, but Kathryn beats me to it.

"What are you all standing around here for? Get back to work!"

The following hours, I volunteer to step out and serve the ladies their wine and tea. Dare I say two of the daughters looked surprised to see me emerge again, but I still avoid eye contact. I've won that battle. There's no need to start a fire.

By the time I'm done helping Kathryn prepare the stew, all the other servants have left. Famished, I look longingly at the food left on the worktable just as I catch the old woman staring at me.

"Go ahead," she says with a grin before moving to help Bianca haul a massive iron cauldron over toward the sink. "You'll be at those dishes for a while and might as well eat now."

Indeed, there is a tower of dishes and pots already by the sinks. The cauldron alone will take forever. So I plunk down at the table, serve myself some steak and potatoes, pour a cup of tea, and dig in.

Devouring is a better word for what I did. Holy gods, it is delicious. Within moments, I've consumed two pieces of steak laden with thyme, then start on the fried potatoes. Which are as absurdly good as the eggs. I ditch the tea in favor of downing a glass of the richest milk I've ever tasted. Not that she ever really drank milk, since it's always been water, but . . . I look up from my plate to find Kathryn and Bianca gaping from the hearth. "Gods above," the former says, moving to sit at the table. "When was the last time you ate?"

Good food like this? A while. And if I'm going to encounter any of the daughters on my way down to the quarters, I don't want to be swaying from hunger. I need my strength if I'm going to be traversing this castle for long hours. Which is sure to be horrific, but I will do it — to fulfill and honor my vow to Lacy. Suddenly not very hungry, I set down my fork. "Sorry," I say.

Gretta waves her hand. "Don't worry about it. Kathryn may seem shrewd, but she loves when people love her cooking." She says it with enough humor and kindness that it chafes.

I push the food around on my plate until both women take their leave. As I wash the dishes, I fall into a rhythm, as I've done before while cleaning fresh game at home. The kitchen sounds turn muffle as I let myself spiral down, contemplating that horrible question again and again: Am I strong enough to survive?

By the time I've returned to the servants' quarters, it's almost ten at night, and everyone is ready for bed, most having already gone to sleep.

I debate a bath, but opt to use the water to tend to my temple and hydrate myself. Once I've eased my headache and changed out of the many layers, securing them tightly at the innermost corner of my metal headboard, I tumble into bed on just my shift.

I shove my face into my pillow as I turn to face the wall.

My throat aches from the sobs I keep suppressed, my body stiff trying to keep it from shaking. The only proof of my collapse being a small puddle of tears that stain my pillow.