The Raven Girl

Chapter 19

With an unknown time limit and the pressure that it brought, Asta lost her footing on the stairs, miscalculating just how far down the stone ledge of the step really was. The familiar feeling of a fearful shock took hold of her heart, squeezing it in that singular moment. Her limbs sprawled out in an instinctive defence, grasping the walls, the floor- anything to break her fall.

How she hated that feeling.

Glancing briefly over her shoulders, she brushed off her embarrassment, glad to see that there had been nobody about to witness her stumble. That was not what she needed right now: she had to appear level headed and decisive- nothing they threw at her could faze her- even if inside she had melted like snow, trampled on by a thousand carriages and their horses, turned to a horrible, greying sludge.

Her eyes remained firmly on her feet from then onwards, not wanting to make another mistake again. Continuing down the narrow staircases, arms flailed out to the sides and palms pressed deep into the walls to keep her upright, she made it to what she assumed was the main body of the castle, on ground level. 

Picking up the coarsely knitted skirts of her dress, she hurried about the castle, looking for some form of an exit. Many bitter thoughts brewed in the storms of her mind, cursing this royal family that was the Lorvens. Why did everything they made her do have a more or less impossible challenge attached to it? She understood that they hated her- they'd made that plain enough- but why must there be so many games when the rules had not even been explained to her? It was like playing a game of chess without even knowing how to win.

Finally, she stumbled upon an iron gate that led outside. She smiled in triumph even though she hadn't yet found the kitchens- the battle was almost won, in her eyes. Certain that she had made it within whatever ridiculous time limit that had been set, she almost ambled along the pathways, a sudden confidence taking hold of her. Almost.

Looking up, she saw something that resembled the kitchens they kept at home. Broadening her strides, she quickened her pace, her confidence drained at the sight of it. She did not know what she would be expected to do, what tasks she would be made to carry out. Of course, there had been many a time in her childhood that she had lingered about the kitchens, begging for one of the cakes they had only just baked, but she had never took any notice of what they actually did. It could have been witchcraft, for all she had known, that created such delicacies.

She shook her head, ignoring the nagging doubt in the back her mind that seemed to gnaw on every ounce of confidence, just like her younger self had gnawed on those delicious cakes. She would not allow herself to feel this way, for it would only give them yet another reason to hurt her; she could not face the darkness that came with that punishment again.

Lifting her neck from underneath her shoulders, she took a deep breath, reminding herself of how easily she had navigated the castle, considering the circumstances. With that fresh in her mind, she managed to calm her overworked heart somewhat, and quickly, before she faltered once more, she knocked upon the door.

Perhaps she had not knocked loudly enough, or perhaps she had not heard their reply, but after waiting for a while with no answer, her confidence, inevitably, left her. 

A panic roused within this moment: should she knock again or should she enter? It may have been a simple matter, one that could have been solved within a simple second, yet everything had seemingly built up into an irrational, body consuming anxiety and the prospect of coming to a decision was more than daunting. 

In any other situation, perhaps she would have left to compose herself, but Rickard's words were still ringing in her ears. She could not run away, and if she did not enter the kitchens now, then she would likely be punished for idleness. That was the way it worked, and she had to get used to it sooner or later, else she would pay a hefty price.

Biting her lip in an attempt to pull herself together, she knocked once more, deciding to take a more cautious approach. After all, if she was not polite in the cook's eyes, she could be punished. In all honesty, she knew that this would be the case for anything she did wrong, yet it helped to convince herself that she could perhaps limit her suffering somewhat if she were only careful enough.

Again, there was no reply. Clearly, her decision was not the right once and, after waiting several minutes, she realised that she would have to abandon her original plan and enter without permission. Heart pounding, her trembling hands reached for the door, palms beaded with sweat from the state of panic she had worked herself into.

Just as she was about to push open the door, it opened abruptly on her, making her lose her balance and tumble into the room, Asta only able to stop herself falling directly into the person at the door. Face bright red with embarrassment, she cowered sheepishly away from the person, apologising quietly. 

"And to think you'd have had the sense to enter after the first knock..." They began, voice loud and reprimanding- the type that always seemed angry regardless of the situation. "Such a stupid girl... I've known poor women who've a better sense than you."

"I'm sorry," Asta whispered, cursing herself. So much for manners. This world was so alien to her that it was unreal and her eyes felt hot with tears for a minute, the cold tone of voice one of many hints that she was not well liked by this cook. "I thought-"

"You thought. That was a mistake you've made many a time that you still haven't learnt from." He said, nastily, a cutting reply that cracked off the tip of his tongue.

"I don't understand," she said, meekly, not knowing what to say.

"Let's see where thinking got you in the past, shall we? From what I've been told, you thought it would be a good idea to ignore the rules of your exile and lurk about a village. You thought that you would be  treated kindly despite your being a raven and you thought that now, seeming as you are no longer locked up in that dungeon, that everything has changed."

"I never!" She protested, but he ignored her.

"Nothing has changed, and if you do not work, you'll find yourself back where you started."

Completely taken aback, Asta could not find the words to express what she was thinking; was she even thinking at all? If this were not such a serious matter, she would have laughed at the absurdity of what he had said. She had not even stepped into the room before he had decide how much he hated her. She guessed that was what came with being Ravner- universal hatred. Her words had run dry, too stunned to properly understand the danger that came with his hate: one bad word to Rickard and she would likely be back in that dungeon.

Chucking an old brush at her feet, which were still frozen to the floor in her shock, the man barked orders at her all of a sudden, pulling her out of her thoughts.

Turning to her, he sneered, "Hands of a baby... what use are you? I'd be better off with a three year old toddling about my kitchens than you- at least they'd pick up things quicker than you."

Grimly, she picked up the brush, staring wistfully at the outside world and not at the pile of burnt pots and pans that she'd been ordered to scour. If only she could show this spiteful cook that she was willing to work to avoid punishment. She just wasn't sure if she could live up to his unfair expectations.