Those Without Wings

SIXTEEN

Wrinkles formed on the tips of Avery's fingers as she dunked them into the soapy water, pressing into wet fabric. Grabbing hold of another shirt, she rubbed it against the washboard. Sweat creased her brow, red flushing her face, as her sleeves slipped off her shoulder. One of the older woman had lent her a tie for her hair, but stray strands slipped in front of her face. Wiping her brow, soap suds rolled over her forehead. The steam didn't help. Around her, the others chattered while some hummed lightly as they worked. This was easy work for them. Ms Ducane sang out it a bellowing tenor beside her, a Walker folk song about a giant forming mountains. A ridiculous tune, but Avery found herself humming along against her will. There's a shout of laughter as two children carrying large loads of sloppy wet clothing rushed by, bumping into Avery, nearly knocking her off of her wobbly stool. Ms Ducane caught her shoulder, steadying the frail Avionary.

"Ye alright? Ye zeem a tad pale." The woman's hand moved from Avery's arm to her forehead, checking for signs of fever.

"Um, no, I am fine. May- I mean thank you." Avery replied, pulling away from Ms Ducane's touch. Ms Ducane nodded, turning back to her work. Her voice picked up again, the same song. Avery plunged her hands back into the water. She tuned into her work, scrubbing more vigorously. Bits and pieces of conversation managed to break through her conversation. Snippets of gossip. It almost made Avery grin; it reminded her of the court's' constant twittering.

Pulling the shirt out of the water and wringing it out, she placed it in a pile with the other clothing that needed to be hung up. Once the pile was big enough, some of the children would take it over to the drying racks. Grabbing another dirty shirt, the vault door swung open.

Two middle-aged men strolled in, one carrying a load of dirty sheets while the other leafed through a newspaper. They were both clad in armour, pads over their shoulders and knees as daggers hung at their hips. Avery caught a glance at the front of the paper. A portrait of her stared back at her. On the dusty paper, she sat with her shoulders back, rigid and unsmiling. She wore the High Priestess' crown while holding the scepter in the other. The painting had been done only a few weeks before her Grand Ceremony. Scrawled above the photo in large letters, the paper read, 'High Priestess Whitewing Missing: ~100,000,000 Falcon Reward'.

They were looking for her.

As one dropped off the laundry pile, the other set down his paper on an empty stool. An older gentleman nodded in thanks.

"How'd it go out there?"

"We managed to raid the Nocturne storehouse. Enough supplies in there for the rest of the month. Sahara said we might not even need it though," one replied. The other grinned, throwing an arm over his partner's shoulder.

"Ay?"

"We gonna hit those winged bastards right where it hurts! The Edens will fall." the other replied with a drunken giddy brought on by adrenaline.

Their conversation got lost in the midsts of the bustling people, but Avery kept her gaze locked on the newspaper. She needed to get that paper.