I'm still simmering as I wash dishes in the kitchen, hours after meeting the lovely laundress of the castle. I didn't even catch her name, but I guess it doesn't matter. I wonder if I should go to Helga about it, but what else can she do besides a scolding and a warning. Besides, the red in my cheeks from her slap is gone, unnoticeable now after being in the sweltering kitchen.

Nadine steps up to my right, placing another plate into the soapy water. "You're in a foul mood today. Everything okay?"

I don't look at her as I sneer, "I don't want to talk about it." And, it's none of her business anyway. She means well, I know that, and so do I by not talking. Mostly because I'm afraid of what I'll say to her, and I don't need her getting caught in the crossfire of my anger.

"Okay." She says with a timid nod, but there's enough hint in her voice that she'll be there if I need it.

It's appreciated, even if I don't say anything else as she goes back to the worktable. After leaving the laundry room with a mild victory, I had no choice but to drape my dresses on my bed to dry. It was the last thing I wanted to do – especially because the bonnets and hats I'd left were gone by the time I got back – but I didn't know what else to do. My body still slacks and groans at the likelihood of having to sleep on a damp bed tonight, and dealing with stiff, crusted dresses in the morning with how cold it is down there. But if the dresses are even still there, I'll take my miracles.

I barely ate anything by the time I arrived at the kitchen, but Bianca did swipe an extra piece of bread for me, but that was all. With the time I had to burn, I thought I could do my laundry and be in the kitchen in time for a meal, but all Kathryn did was bark at me to help in mopping the floors before heading to the sinks.

Another dish slides into the sink, but I don't look or care. I didn't serve today, as ordered by Helga, and Kathryn found means for me to do to make up for it. Breakfast passed without incident, same for lunch. And during the period of rest, I managed to fill two bowls of soup – one I gave to Bianca as a thanks.

Next to my bubbling anger, nervousness settles next to as I've yet to spot Helga all day. I doubt she's dead since no one seems to be more distraught than usual. Even if people die every day – every hour – in this caste, Helga's made enough of an impression and reputation that if she were gone, after how long she's been here, everyone would be even more frightened.

I'm hoping to see her when I leave through the dining room, as she's usually posted in a corner, watching the Dimitrescu family with such intent, such focus. When does she even eat? Where does she even sleep? What do people know about her?

I decide to ask as I place a ceramic bowl into the drying rack. I wipe my hands on my apron and turn around and ask to no one in particular, "Does anyone know the story about Helga?"

The entire kitchen seems to freeze, safe for Kathryn as she loads two fat loaves of bread into the oven. In fact, almost everyone's heads looked this way and that, as if expecting the woman to appear out of thin air.

"It is not wise to gossip, girl." Kathryn says, keeping her attention on her work.

It would appear the two women are close enough that they'll defend one another. Of course, they are the two seemingly oldest workers of the castle. It might be out of mutual respect. The laundress seemed to be in her early forties.

"I'd just like to know who she is. Where did she come from? And how the hell a woman like her ended up here."

"And how is that your business, exactly?"

Fair, but . . . "How is it gossiping as opposed to trying to get to know her? I am going to be seeing her around. Plus, none of you seem to mind whispering about the Dimitrescu family when they are a few steps away."

The entire essence of the kitchen stills at the truth. I wonder what that says about Helga.

Kathryn sighs, leaning against the wall, out of the way of the oven's heat and folds her arms. "Miss Helga started out just as the rest of us, and slowly worked her way up the ladder of the Dimitrescu servants. She is here, and she is alive."

"Who was she before? She carries herself like a noble. How did she end up here?"

Slowly work starts to resume, ears of all straining to listen.

A shrug of the cook's shoulders. "I cannot say for sure. I've had my own assumptions. Perhaps she was kidnapped, or her family was killed with nowhere else to go. But what I do know is that she's lived a thousand lifetimes within these walls." A flicker of sorrow. "She's had her heart broken so many times, her body bears the scars. And that, can grow heavy of wanning shoulders such as hers."

My hand slows from scrubbing a bowl. It would appear my assumption was correct.

Helga has seen some things in this castle. Has seen so many woman die – young and old, slow and quick – at the hands of the Dimitrescu family, or by their own.

"Does she have a family? A husband?"

Another shrug. "She's done well to keep to herself."

Which is why if might feel like a betrayal to be talking about her when she's not here.

I think back to that creature-woman from Duke's room, how her face didn't show an inch of emotion safe for trying to get me out of there as quick as she could.

"And she'll probably keep doing it until the day crumbles into dust. Don't think her status didn't come without struggle and conniving and clawing." Kathryn adds.

Secrets—Helga is a women with secrets. And secrets make people deadly.

Kathryn goes back to the bread, pulling the long, wooden spatula to pull them out. I turn back to the dishes, about to ask more about Helga, as the cook never fully answered my question, and to try and peel back another layer of this arguably mysterious housekeeper.

That is when one of the daughters walks in.

Not Bela, but the middle one Cassandra, raven-haired with eyes like roughened amber and a cruelty in her very breath. In the beginning I had noted how quick she was to grin, and had marked the moments when Cassandra thought no one was looking and gazed across the horizon, her face tight.

And I didn't forget my first day here, the phantom pain of her hand gripping my hair still makes my scalp ache. Enough so that I left it in a loose braid down my back. At worst, I can sever the length off. A few strands have already loosened around my face.

I keep my head down, shoulders tucked in, as the kitchen quiets in the daughter's presence. Cassandra just swaggers right up to Kathryn, who has gone pale as death. Though she may be a loud, no-nonsense woman, she's a coward at heart.

"Lady Cassandra," she says, and everyone — including me — bows.

The middle daughter smiles — with perfect, too-white teeth. "I was thinking I might help with the dishes."

My blood chills. I feel the eyes of everyone in the kitchen fix on me.

"As much as we appreciate it, Lady—"

"Are you rejecting my offer, hag?" I don't dare to turn around. Beneath the soapy water, my pruny hands shake. I fist them. Fear is useless; fear got you killed.

"N-no. Of course, Lady. We — and Erika — will be glad for the help."

And that is that.

The clatter and chaos of the kitchen slowly resumes, but conversations remain hushed. They are all watching, waiting—either for my blood to spill on the gray stones, or to overhear anything juicy from the ever-smiling lips of Cassandra Dimitrescu.

I feel each step the witch takes towards me — unhurried, but powerful.

"You wash. I'll dry," she says at my side.

I peek out from behind the strands of my hair. Cassandra's golden eyes glitter.

"Th-thank you," I make myself stammer.

The amusement in those staggering eyes grow. Not a good sign.

But I continue my work, passing the witch the pots and plates.

Feeble and obedient.

I'd learned enough about the daughter on my first day, and throughout my first week here. Almost all of the servants agreed she is a sadist. A cruel, merciless woman who practically owns the dungeons within the castle bowels. She's tormented so many servants prior, that if she didn't kill them herself, they did it for her. Many young, naive women had fallen for her sudden advances, so eager at the chance to live, they didn't even question where such "fondness" would take them.

Toys. That's what they are to her, and that's what she does.

Toys, toys, toys.

"You're from the outside, yes?"

I give a timid nod, but I make the mental note. Odd to refer to villagers like that when they're only a casual stroll down the hill. Was it just something of an inflated ego, or is she more confined to this castle than she lets on?

"An interesting task, for a seasoned hunter," Cassandra observes, quietly enough that no one else in the bustling kitchen can hear.

"It's what I was assigned to."

"And you didn't bother to argue?"

"I'm not stupid enough to question Alcina Dimitrescu." I say a bit too sharply. Her answering grin makes my insides turn watery.

I don't falter with the washing; don't let the pot in my hands slip an inch. Five minutes, and then I can murmur some explanation and run.

"I know Mother said she starts everyone here, but you're the first female hunter we've had. I'm surprised she didn't see to that."

"I'll admit, I'm not the best. It was only as necessity to provide for my mother."

"She never bothered herself?"

I give a little shrug. "She didn't know how. My father only had the chance to teach me before he passed."

An interrogation — that's what this is. Lady Dimitrescu had mentioned Cassandra wanting to hunt with me. It seems her daughter has decided to assess what level of threat I pose.

"You know, I've hunted every beast you can imagine," Cassandra went on. "People being my particular favorite, especially men. They're a rarity around here, so it's not too often we capture one, but when we do . . . Oh, we delight in such horrible things. It's so much more interesting with these machines made to break them apart. The fools are so caught up in their own status that they never realized that a woman can"— she glances down at my scared hands and wrists; most from failed attempts at traps and picking at callus — "get her hands dirty."

It's not an act when I grumble, "All men are disgusting pigs."

"Indeed."

I don't why a part of me wants to, laugh at that.

Two of the fowl-pluckers have hooked their hair behind their ears in a futile attempt to overhear us. But Cassandra knows how to keep her voice low.

"You're, what—fifteen? Sixteen?"

"Eighteen."

"Thin for your age." Cassandra gives me a look that makes me wonder if she can see through the navy cotton dress to the ribs still working their way to retract into my skin. "You must have gone without food for a while."

I scrub at the pot. I'll finish it and go. Talking about my personal life around these people, so many of them eager to sell any bit of information to the Mistress who rules this place . . . It might earn me a trip to the dungeons.

"I remember how long it took me to perfect my craft," Cassandra goes on, "at first it was merely a quick slice at the throat. I never really had much interest until Mother showed me a few, tricks. Turns out, the more scared they are, the thicker the blood."

"I wouldn't know. I don't usually kill for their blood. I only killed because I had to."

Cassandra leans in close, an iron skillet in her long, deadly hands. "But it's not that different, is it?"

I make myself smaller and buy myself a few more seconds of time as I pretend to consider. "I don't understand."

"You've never once wanted to slice a man's throat, Erika Pavel? Never felt that urge tug at you? You've never hated someone so deeply that you just wanted to pluck their eyes out with your bare hands?"

I barely have time to process the fact that she knows my full name, because the memories are starting to open the door to my mind that I've kept thoroughly shut for so many months. Images of my mother wailing as I attempted to claw at her skin, the rough hands of that fucker who tried to take what he wanted from me . . .

I manage to get the last bit of burnt food off the pot and rinse it, handing it to the witch before wiping my hands on my apron. "No, Lady. I don't see why I would."

Even if I did want to walk away; have dreamt about it again and again — want to run to the other end of the world and wash my hands of these people forever. But it has nothing to do with the monster I know prowls beneath my skin.

Cassandra's golden eyes seemed to devour me whole. "You would have such urges, girl," she says with expert quiet, "because you're a killer, just like us. They call us monsters, but really, we just like to a hunt a different kind of prey."

I grip the edge of the sink with one hand, if only to keep my feet steady.

I force myself to meet that golden stare. "I'm not a killer. I'm a survivor." I say, turning away and nodding my farewell to Kathryn. "I hunted because I had to."

"Pity," Cassandra says.

The servants all gawk at me as I walk out, their questioning eyes telling me enough: they hadn't heard. A small relief, then.

It's not even time for me to go, as dinner still needs to be prepared, but not Kathryn or even Helga can stop me from leaving. None of the other members of the Dimitrescu family are at the table, thank Mother Miranda, and I steer left out into the courtyard.

God — oh, god. What have I gotten myself into?

They're planning something. I know it. My life might very well be in enough danger that I have to think of something to defend myself.

I barely feel the summer breeze on my skin, hear the droning and buzzing of insects, feel the warmth of the sun – of the outside – haloing my head. I just keep moving, my feet unable to stop, unwilling to stop because Cassandra could be right on my heels, and it would allow my mind and body enough time to process the many hints and warnings given to me by the Dimitrescu daughter.

It isn't until I reach the foot of the threshold of the opera hall that I realize I have no idea where I am going.

I have nowhere to go at all. No one to run to.

Bela hasn't bothered to acknowledge my existence since that day she found me cleaning the fireplaces, nor has Lady Dimitrescu searched for me since seeing that . . . thing in the merchant's room, and Duke won't be back for another week.

I try to control my breathing as my feet bring me to the center of the room, leaning on the edge of a small table with a large vase of flowers. The heels of my shoes click along the wooden floors, softening as I meander over to the couch sitting across from two olive-green armchairs. I take the risk of sitting down, burying my face in my hands as sobs threaten to shudder my body.

I can't bear to think about it, but I have to process the thoughts so I can find a way out that'll somehow still have me working here as a glorious nobody.

I stand up and begin to pace, my heart still racing despite the deep breaths I take. The ornately designed piano sits in front of the stage, blocked by a velvet red and gold curtain. Dark, oak wood fills most of the room and two large chandeliers with crystal baubles hand on either end, illuminating the place with a butter glow.

I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do.

If I run, they'll catch me; bring my back to the dungeons to torture and mutilate me and do 'so many wonderful, deadly things to me,' as Cassandra said. If I hide in the castle, they'll find me eventually. Rip me in two, or stick pins in my eyes –

I don't know what to do.

There's the chance I could be promoted to hunter, if that's even a thing, and the daughters will then wait the chance to strike. It would provide them easier means to kill me – outside the castle walls, in a place where no one will hear me scream. But what's stopping them now? Other than their mother? They seem to enjoy killing so much, I considered it a miracle I survived the first dinner.

A house fly buzzes by my head, one of a few that I've seen even with my limited time here. I gently swat it away from my head.

Maybe I could escape to the nearest woods and just disappear. They might not be able to find me in the shadows of the trees –

"Why, hello!" A voice drawls in a lilting tone.

I freeze.

Daniela Dimitrescu is leaning against the wall, her arms crossed.