yoko meshi (phr.) "a meal eaten sideways"; the stress one experiences when speaking a foreign language or adapting to a new situation.
"Hämäläinen?"
She woke with a start. As though he, too, had been startled, Céluiz turned his head towards the wooden door leading to her quarters, as silent as he ever was. Azula wrenched herself from bed – "yes, I'm coming!" – and dressed quickly in the grey dress hanging over her bed, her fingers closing over the finicky buttons as though controlled by a puppetmaster outside of her own body. She wasn't even cognisant of moving her own limbs; it was as though she was still mired in the same half-dream that produced Céluiz's silhouette looming over her, night after night.
It didn't do to think about him. Thinking about Céluiz would make her think about the Devil; thinking about the Devil would make her think about all those dead paqudus, the guardsmen whose strings had been seized by a curse outside of Azula's control; thinking about all those dead paqudus would make her think about Hyacinth, and if she thought about Hyacinth then she would be truly, utterly lost.
She ripped open the door in the same moment that she bound her hair back into a ponytail, hoping that this was deemed an appropriate style for a lady's maid – she had been barely cognisant of the induction instructions, so dazed had she been for the whole of those first long days in the palace, thinking of dead men and druj raining from the sky. She had been so relieved to be shown to her quarters – a narrow room, no larger than a cupboard at the bakery, big enough just for a bed wedged in lengthways so that she could not even stand up when the door was fully closed. Thus furnished, she could understand why they had been told to bring no personal effects; there would have been absolutely nowhere to put them.
Akanksha Txori, small and curvy and dark-skinned, had her long dark hair scraped back into a severe bun which did little to dim the brightness of her smile. This was not an expression of any particular, personal fondness; she knew that it wasn't. The senior maid was always this friendly with everyone. It was part of what made her such an effect set of eyes and ears within the palace; no one could ever bring themselves to dislike Akanksha Txori.
"Am I late for muster?"
"Muster?" Akanksha laughed and shook her head. Over her shoulder, Azula could see that the windows were still glazed over dark, without even the slightest hint of an encroaching dawn. "Breakfast, maybe." She gestured that Azula should loosen her hair and redo it into a bun which would not interfere with her work during the day; Azula should have guessed as much. She kicked herself for not guessing as much. "Don't worry, Hämäläinen. Most girls need a little bit of help waking up on time for the first week or so."
It wouldn't have been difficult six months ago; Azula had spent nearly her entire life under the Commandant's stewardship. Waking before dawn – she guessed it was perhaps five in the morning or so – was nothing, nothing at all, particularly as she doubted that the life of a maid in the palace, no matter how difficult, would be as arduous as one of the patented death marches of Opona. But six months in the bakery had made her soft, in a way; Ina or Khalore had usually risen to light the fires early. Azula had been allowed to sleep in until sunrise.
"Thank you," she said to Akanksha, "for coming to get me."
"It really is no problem." The older maid paused, like she was considering her next words carefully, and then spoke quickly. "Your principal is no longer in the Selection. Reiko wishes you to report to the guardhouse for reassignment as soon as you can."
"Reiko?"
"Lieutenant Morozova."
"I… understand." Poor Tereza Stan. Lady Arali, eliminated so soon. Azula might have taken it personally, if she had ever met the girl – but the work of a maid was done at night and in darkness, when the Selected girls were away being interviewed by Princess Asenath or learning how to arrange flowers with the courtier chaperones. It meant that Azula had not seen Belle since the fall of Aizsaule either; it meant that she had only glimpsed Ilja from afar, as one of a dozen grey-suited and grey-faced men. He was anonymous. Azula strove for anonymity as well.
"Smarten yourself as best you can, Hämäläinen," Akanksha added softly. "First impressions mean a lot here."
It was strange, after a childhood in Opona, to see so many people who looked like her. In childhood, she had Belle and Myghal – but even then, there had been something stilted about it, something strained. Myghal, whose heritage was not so recent as to draw the same degree of contempt, had always been the most prepared to needle Azula in this regard. And Belle didn't use her Nawia name; her house had been burned down because of the way that she looked, the places her parents came from. But here – the prince and princess looked like her; the captain of the western excubitor corps resembled her; the head of the palace guard looked like her.
Well, perhaps not exactly like her. The lieutenant was taller and leaner, with an ink-black wolfcut and pale eyes somewhere between gold and silver – mercury, Azula thought, starlight, some cold shiny colour. They were sitting in the guardhouse, languid, legs crossed and boot-laces trailing, wearing a dark grey dress which looked decidedly less militaristic than the rest of their attire.
Azula was clearly not the only maid who had been summoned thus. There was a small huddle of them lingering at the threshold of the guardhouse, clustered in quiet discussion. There must have been multiple eliminations, then, only a week into the competition. Azula slipped amongst their number, quickly, quietly, hoping not to be noticed, as the lieutenant called out their new assignments lazily, barely glancing at the papers strewn on the desk beside her.
"…Đorđević, Lady Kass. Moriarty, Lady Mønt. Hämäläinen, Lady Chou..."
Lady Mønt. That was Belle, wasn't it? That was her court name. Azula moved her way through the crowd like she was pushing through a tsunami wave.
"Lieutenant! Lieutenant, sir, I was wondering…" Shit. She hadn't rehearsed this at all. What was she intending to say? "I am of Mønt," Azula said, softly, apologetically, hastily. "And I would… be most honoured to serve Lady Mønt… in the Selection..."
The lieutenant spoke coolly, sharply, like they were irritated that Azula had attempted to speak to them at all. "You haven't been assigned to Lady Mønt."
"I am aware of that, lieutenant, but… if Moriarty was willing to swap places with me..."
"I'm sorry," the soldier in the grey dress said, quite coolly, one eyebrow arched. What had Ilja called her – Morova? "You haven't been assigned to Lady Mønt, Miss Hämäläinen. And we do not accept requests for reassignments."
She turned her attention away from Azula, like the Devil wasn't even there, like she didn't even exist.
Azula could practically hear Akanksha saying I told you so. Well, that was fine – after all, she was a xrafstar, at last a xrafstar, irrevocably and damnedly a xrafstar. There were things that she could change. There were choices she could make. There were paths she could carve for herself.
And so, Azula set her eyes upon the soldier in grey.
Before she could even unfurl those tendrils of her consciousness which would allow her to pluck upon whatever strings bound Reiko Morozova, a hand landed heavily on her shoulder, checking her quite silently. She glanced over her shoulder, quizzically, expecting it to be Ilja keeping her in line – but this was why she was here, this was how she could be useful – but no: it was a lean woman with pin straight black hair worn in a low ponytail. She was wearing a rich wine-dark bodice with long sleeves, and the same kind of trousers preferred by the guards ranging about the palace. She carried herself like a soldier; Azula wondered if there some further, more secretive rank of guard of which Ilja had failed to inform them.
"Not the finest idea you've ever had, little bird." She had a low, sweet voice; she spoke so softly that none but Azula could hear her.
Azula tensed. "You are?"
Dark eyes assessed her cautiously. "Call me Swietłana."
"That doesn't," Azula said softly, "quite answer my question."
The woman had obvious scars gouged into her throat and bare shoulders, the type that only a druj could leave; she had a signet ring on her pinkie finger engraved with a symbol Azula could not recognise, that belonged to neither Illéa or Irij:
(仇)
"Well," Swietłana said, sounding amused, "you could also call me Lady Chou, I suppose – which would make you my new maid, would it not?"