The Raven Girl

Chapter 20

After hours upon hours of repetitive, menial work, Asta watched the man through guarded eyes, her mind alert, ready to cast her eyes down at her busy hands if he so much as turned his head slightly. She had been made to kneel at a bucket, hands desperately scraping at the burnt crust each pot seemed to wear, nails worn down to stumps and knuckles raw, until nightfall, and even then she had not been permitted to leave.

There was a constant influx of things to wash. Whether that meant that the King and his court were always eating or these pots and pans had been set aside specifically for her, she did not know, but both seemed just as likely as the other at this stage.

Finally, the cook seemed to have run out of people to order and things to cook and Asta grew hopeful, her heap of items to wash diminishing somewhat for the first time that day. She let her guard slip, glancing over to him and catching his eye, an almost pleading look on her face. He scoffed at her, crushing her once again, though he really needn't have bothered.

"What are you looking at?" He sneered, aiming a brief kick her way and with this succeeding in toppling her off balance from atop her aching knees. She shook her head to clear her thoughts, not wanting to cause any trouble, and returned her gaze firmly to the bucket, scolding herself.

He paused to stare at her, a smug grin planted on his face. "You think you're done, don't you. You think that just 'cause everyone else is finishing, you've finished too. That," he said, gesturing to her workload, "is only the beginning. Once you've done that, you can clean the kitchens, scour the floor and dry up everything you've soaked with those useless, children's hands of yours."

Asta looked about the kitchens, which happened to be rather large in size; they would take hours to clean to this man's standards, standards which she was sure had been raised just to make her life here harder. It was useless arguing this though- she would not benefit for it at all. In fact, she would probably be chastened for her troubles.

Soon enough, the kitchens were deserted, all except her aloud to sit and eat their supper, however small it happened to be. Her thoughts turned to how hungry she had grown; the idea of eating lingered now in her mind. What she would give to sit at their table, no matter how much they hated her, and eat her share of the food they were granted. She doubted she would even get supper that night.

Staring out across the wide expanse of the room, she sighed, the familiar weak, sickly feeling that she had suffered from returning once again. Grabbing a broom in as firm a grip as she could manage, she started work on the floor, realising at once that it was not such a good idea to begin with this as her footprints would soon dirty everything she cleaned.

There was no way to tell how late it was, but exhaustion had caught up on her and she found herself slowing down, and no matter how many times she told herself off for slacking, she would always catch herself doing it again. In a form of tired frustration, she chucked the broom and whatever else she had within her reach at the dastardly floor, stomach growling in protest. When had she last eaten?

Just as she had done so, she heard the door open. Instant panic spread through her mind and pierced her heart, sending her running to collect whatever she had thrown on the floor, cursing herself harshly all the while.

"You're swearing," came a familiar, matter-of-fact voice, a voice that she had not been expecting- it certainly was not that of the cook. She turned on her heels, clasping the broom within her hands, only to see Rickard standing in the doorway, his expression almost warm.

Confused, she panicked once again- this was not the Rickard she had spoken with yesterday, cold and uncaring. Quickly, she managed to stutter out a quiet reply, scared that her reluctance to speak would anger him.