Thread of Frost

Ch. 15: Nowhere to Be Found

People were staring.

Isolde ducked her head, placing a boiled egg on her plate. The bandage on her forehead itched. Her fingers ached to touch it. She added a heel of plain bread to her plate, along with several slices of soft white cheese.

Isolde sat at the smallest table in the corner, cutting her boiled egg into neat slices. She could do this.

She had to do this.

Sunshine spilled into the breakfast room, illuminating the tiled floor. Cacti and wintering flowers lined the walls. A stained-glass window of Lestia breathing frost over a city cast odd colours over the room, dipping the girls in soft green and crushed-candy pink.

Isolde took a bite of the bread; the crust was stale.

She chewed mechanically, glancing up at the clock. Eight o'clock. Morning prayer began in an hour. She'd already snuck into the kitchens this morning to grab what supplies she could — a knife, a flask, a handful of nuts — and she'd stashed them under a loose floorboard in her bedroom. It was enough, Isolde thought, to last her at least two days.

She took a bite of her cheese; the bottom was moulding, beginning to turn rotten. Her stomach groaned in protest, but she forced herself to chew slowly. To savour it. Who knew when her next meal would come?

"What happened to your head?"

Isolde looked up.

Tilda and Sendra stood by her table, dressed in white dresses and green sashes. Their hair was freshly combed, and they both smelled of flowers and mint; they must have visited the hot baths below the church before breakfast. Both girls made a point of it anytime the good-looking gardener was due for a visit.

"I tripped," Isolde said. "Cleaning out a fireplace. Hit my head."

Tilda's eyebrow inched higher. "You tripped."

Isolde cut her egg into smaller pieces. "Yes."

"Over nothing."

Isolde shrugged. "Happens sometimes."

Tilda's face scrunched up. "Well, I suppose you do have the..." She waved a hand at Isolde's wooden leg. "You know."

Isolde set down her fork. "Did you need something?"

"Where were you last night?" Tilda asked.

Panic prickled under her skin. But no, Isolde thought, Tilda couldn't possibly know about her fortnightly escapades; every girl locked her door at night, and Tilda wasn't nearly clever or rebellious enough to learn how to pick a lock.

Isolde smiled pleasantly. "Sleeping. That's what people do at night, Tilda."

"There was mud on your boots," Tilda said.

Isolde paused mid-chew. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. She'd carried Rosie through a muddy patch last night on her way to drop the younger girl at the abandoned flower shop. She'd thought about stopping in the hidden bunker to try and clean the dirt off, but she'd decided it was a bigger risk to be seen than to have muddy boots.

She'd calculated wrong, apparently.

Isolde swallowed her food. "Why were you looking at my boots?"

Tilda crossed her arms. "You were sneaking out to meet someone. Admit it. That's how you hurt your head."

Isolde took a sip of water. "I went out last night to fix a leak in the stables. On Sister Tria's orders." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "If you don't believe me, then perhaps we should ask her together."