Badlands

1

"Maude," Otto's voice sliced through the silence like a blade, cold and sharp. "The snowdrops in the front require your attention. They look pitiable—even more so than usual."

I straightened, turning to face him, my hands stilling for a moment. The man stood rigid, his eyes narrow slits that missed nothing.

"Of course, sir," I replied with an imperceptible nod, feeling the sting of his words like a physical lash. Snowdrops by their very nature droop, heads bowed in a semblance of grief. I nearly let slip a retort—that all snowdrops seem to carry a sorrowful air—but I caught the words before they breached my lips. Otto would not appreciate the sentiment, nor the insolence.

"See to it immediately," he commanded, turning on his heel with the expectation of obedience trailing in his wake.

"Right away, sir," I murmured, already moving towards the door, my mind a whirlwind.

Kneeling among the front gardens, my fingers brushed against the soft petals of the snowdrops. Their gentle fragrance was a balm to my spirit, each inhalation laced with memories of Mother. She had loved these flowers, and I could almost hear her voice whispering amidst their tender blooms, a soothing lullaby from times now past.

The tranquillity of this moment was a rare gift, a fleeting reprieve from the weight of duties and the constant scrutiny. The peace of the garden granted me solace, and for a breath or two, the world's edges softened, its harshness fading like mist at dawn.

A shadow fell upon me, chilling the warmth from the sun's rays, and I stiffened, knowing without looking the bearer of this unwelcome eclipse.

"Maude," came the voice, as crisp and cold as winter's first frost. I raised my eyes to behold the woman in white buckle shoes standing over me, her lips cruelly curved into a smile that never reached her eyes. It was a smile I knew all too well, one that belied the malice hidden beneath its surface.

I bit back the surge of dislike that threatened to rise within me, swallowing it down like bitter medicine. "Good morning," I murmured, my tone neutral, betraying none of the aversion that seethed inside.

"Enjoyed your little escapade, did we?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she crouched beside me. Her reference to my forbidden journey beyond the beech bridge ignited a flare of alarm, though I dared not let it show. Instead, I lowered my head, allowing my brown hair to fall forward, a curtain to shield my face.

"An errand for Otto," I replied softly, hoping my words would cloak the truth in acceptable lies.

Her sharp gaze swept over me, missing nothing. Then, with a deliberate motion, she reached out and lifted the hem of my skirt, exposing the angry red mark on my thigh.

"Or perhaps tending to more... primal affairs?" she hissed, implying unspeakable acts with savages. Her jest, dark and venomous, sought to wound, to leave scars deeper than the physical ones she so carelessly displayed.

Gritting my teeth, I reached for her hand, my fingers brushing against her ice-cold skin. With a swift motion born of suppressed wrath, I flung her hand away from my skirt. I expected a flash of anger to dance across her pallid features, an outburst that would give me some twisted satisfaction.

But she merely stood there, her grin unbroken, lips stretched over teeth like the bared fangs of a wolf. It was as though my defiance amused her all the more, fuelling the malice that glinted in her eyes.

"Oh, dear Maude," she cooed, mocking reverence with the tone of one who savours the theatre of cruelty.

She took a step back and, with theatrical flourish, bent into a curtsy that dripped with derision. Her white buckle shoes gleamed in the faint light as she straightened, her gaze never leaving mine. The gesture was a performance, a calculated insult wrapped in the guise of courtly manners.