The Raven Girl

Chapter 18

A grim expression imprinted onto her face, one that had been forged long ago, she trekked up the stairs. Her feet somewhat relaxed at the familiar chill of the steps, cold stone shrouded in a shadow that seemed to only linger about this part of the castle, an odd light following the curves of the incline, breaking up the darkness.

Everything Rickard had told her had gone over her head; all the information had been crammed into one, rather brief, command, as if he had only a short amount of time to spare on the likes of her. Clawing at her brain, she attempted to piece together what he had said, but found that several parts were missing- it was like trying to play chess with only five pieces.

What had he told her? In a frustrated manner, she opened the door to the room in which she was meant to stay. Surely she could not have been so stupid as to not have been listening- she had learnt that lesson before- but in a sudden panic, she realised that, perhaps, she indeed had not been.

Frowning, she bit her lip- an annoying habit she had picked up recently. She had been told to wash, she remembered, and then go to the kitchens, yet there was another detail missing there: where this kitchen was. It was as if he had purposely left this out, creating an unnecessary challenge for her once more. She reckoned, assuming that this castle was anything like her father's, that the kitchen would be outside the keep, completely separate from everything else, for that was how she had known it to be in all her sixteen years, but this unknown fortress was so much grander and up-to-date with the modern day. Maybe she was wrong.

There was something else though that he had said, something that had worried her immensely. If the cook thought she had taken too long to get ready, they were would punish her once again. What was too long? How was that measured? Rickard had not given her a specific time limit, yet she suspected that if there had been one put in place, it would not have been very generous.

Stepping into the unfamiliar room, she looked about it, frantically searching for the basin they had, allegedly, filled for her use. She could not afford to waste anytime. A quick glance about the stark surroundings told her that this was only a small step up from what she had been staying in before. The only object that sat in the tower was the single basin, a mirror and a neatly folded pile of rather bleak looking clothes, which she assumed were for her.

There were no beds, she noted, but that didn't really surprise her. Besides, she had slept standing up for weeks on end, so what may have seemed as another discomfort did not bother her in the slightest.

Laying on top of the clothes was a small comb, kindly provided for her by one of the other maids. Perhaps they had been warned of the state she was in, carefully handing her everything within their power to dampen down the obscenity.

She looked at the object with contempt for a moment, imagining just what hell she would go through to get it through her hair. Shuddering, she realised that in a few seconds she would be standing in front of that mirror, seeing her ghastly appearance and the extent of the scars left on her face.

With a sigh, she edged towards the basin, which was seemingly placed directly beneath the mirror on purpose- probably yet another act of cruelty that the King had demanded take place. Gently, she brushed away the matted strings of hair away from her face, the silver sheen completely dulled down by dust and grime. She barely even noticed her reflection, focused more on getting down to the kitchens on time. Gods knew she did not want to find herself in that room again.

Splashing the old water to her face and hair, she attempted to clean the oil, dirt and blood from her body, scrubbing at her skin with the stumps left of her nails. Conscious of the time, she gave up on the endeavour, feeling only a little cleaner than she had before.

Finally, she saw the figure in the mirror as she reached down to pick up the comb, confused as to who she was. That was not the girl she remembered. Sure, she had been bruised by her brother, a trail of scars running down her shoulders, dark shadows beneath her eyes, but that was nothing compared to what she saw now. The worst thing was, she looked completely dead, a ghost waiting for its purgatory to end.

She stared at this girl for a while, frozen in her sorrow. It was not the physical appearance that alarmed her so, for although it was shocking- her hair woven together in a static mass of curls, tangled together like the fine twigs on a dead tree, her eyes heavy and dark, a gaping hole between the socket and her eye, her face gaunt- it was a minor detail. Upon looking into the mirror, she saw not all this, but the scars they had left on her face, scars she could never remove. 

They were a devastating reminder of what they'd done to her. 

Within an instant, she was back, dragging the comb through her hair. She knew that both the King and his brother expected her to look neat and orderly, but she could barely keep the tears back when her eyes flicked back over those scars, memories of pain and terror flashing up, vivid images of their impact on her.

How could they make her do this? It was as if they thought that she was not human, that she could be made to do whatever they said, only needing a couple of threats to spring her into action. Again, she found herself biting her lip and she mentally scolded herself. She doubted that this little habit would be much in her favour- the King would probably find it irritating and she would be punished.

Suddenly, she cracked, her emotional control thrown out the window. As she tried to yank the comb out from the knots, tears began to stream down her face. Whether these were in frustration, anticipation or brought on by what she'd been through, she could not tell. Perhaps it was even a mixture of all three. Wiping away these tears, she took a deep breath, returning to her hair.

Once every knot had been combed out sufficiently, she braided it away from her face, pulling each individual strand tightly so it would not fall out. She was the exact opposite now from what she had been only a few moments ago: back then her emotions had been out of control, her outburst impulsive and upsetting, but now she remained still and stony-faced, refusing to think. There was no middle ground.

Gently, she slipped into the new clothes, material scratchy against her skin. She was not used to such fabrics, seeming as she had always been part of a wealthier family, regardless of the fact they were hated. Tying the apron behind her, she smoothed it all down, breathing deeply once again.

Reaching for the door handle, she felt her stomach knot, fear taking hold of her. She only hoped she was not too late.