Inayah woke to sharp nudging against her side, seconds later the blanket was yanked from her form. A gust of cold frigid air shuddered across her and she began to scramble back in a hazy alarm when something hard landed across her left cheek.
Her face snaps to the side upon impact. All sleep vaporized at that moment as stinging pain took its place.
“Get your indolent ass up, girl.” Mathilde’s venomous voice echoed from somewhere in the room. Inayah blinked in a daze, her ear ringing tunelessly. Her hand rises to touch at the throb on her left cheek, then hesitates halfway when something jerks at her ankle sharply.
“Sleeping in like you own the damn place,” the lady mutters furiously to herself. She wears her maid uniform beneath a winter jacket and hat pulled down to her ears. “The fire hearth is dead and dry, which means breakfast for Master Salem will be delayed,” Inayah swears smoke puffed from the woman’s flaring nostrils. Or was it the foggy morning air?
“Why do you still gawk?” Mathilde demanded, raising her open palm as though to hit the girl but stills midway, catching herself. With a scowl in her direction, the woman pivots and storms out of the room.
Inayah stares at the gaping door that sways back and forth idly as frigid morning air billows into the small room. She rubs her arms vigorously, an attempt at creating friction and hence heat but fails.
Sliding out of the bed, Inayah hurriedly strips then pulls on the outfit left on the bed by Mathilde. The attire is simple, beige dress with thick socks that reach just above her knees, inner garments, no jacket. Inayah searches about the room for any jacket but there is none.
Goosebumps surface along her forearms and biceps. She curses softly while wearing her boots then hurriedly brushes her hair into a ponytail as a last-minute decision. Rubbing her arms again, Inayah makes her way through the short yard and towards the mansion. The kitchen door is wide open, Mathilde is a storm as she moves about banging pots and pans.
She bumps past her rather violently, “Don’t just idle there, fool! Go bring wood from the shack outside.”
“I do not have a jacket,” Inayah mildly protested, perhaps more of an inquiry, yet the maid hardly shot her a second glance.
“That is your problem.”
Inayah bites her inner cheek thoughtfully before stepping out as the woman moves to hit her again. Hastily she makes her way to the shed whilst peering up at the dark sky, it is still far too early, she estimates 4 AM.
The sky was as grey as a coal miners handkerchief and so low that the world felt small and close. The air was thick with the sweet smell of the coming storm and nothing had a shadow; for they were all in one great shadow.
The wind whips her dress about sharply. Her face begins to sting from violent numbness. Inayah half jogs towards the shed and unlocks the bolt, hastily stepping inside and away from the impending storm. For a moment, she stands in the silent darkness, staring at even chunks of logs aligned or stacked above each other.
There is a lot, warily so. Huffing a breath, she begins to pile up logs onto a small red wheelbarrow set against the wall. She starts with the largest pieces that scrape her bare forearms and palms, next she picks the small ones to stack above before clapping her hands of dust and grime.
Once done, she grips the lever and with a grunt, begins to guide the wheelbarrow out of the shed. During her time of collecting wood, the dark clouds had slowly gathered above. Inayah glanced up amidst wheeling the tool that began to stagger sideways from the strong, violent winds.
“No no no,” she muttered whinily, gripping the handles tightly until her knuckles paled to ghost white.
The thunderstorm was coming. There were growling, ominous dark clouds gathering above, looming over the forest. There was a sudden downpour and through the rain drenches air came the first long low rumbles of thunder. The violent unforgiving wind raced through the trees and the clatter of loose roof tiles could be heard from the shed.
Inayah flexed her knees and pushed harder, ignoring the chill as the deluge increased, soaking through her hair and trailing down her face, clothes and finally boots.
Suddenly the kitchen door burst open and Mathilde hurriedly scurried out, towards her. “What are you doing!” She screamed above the clap of thunder, shoving Inayah away and grabbing the handles herself, “the wood will get wet!”
Inayah stumbled back slightly, unknowing of what to do as she watched the woman hobble back into the kitchen. She exhaled a pained, fatigued breath, then glanced over her shoulder at the forest.
Beyond the woods was darkness, yet it called to her. Escape. For a moment, though brief, Inayah did consider escaping. Besides, it was far too early for Sin to be awake and Mathilde was neck-deep in chores.
If she escaped then, they would not find her.
It was possible.
But--
“No,” She whispered in defeat, hunching her shoulders and bracing towards the kitchen.
Inside was warm, but barely. A towel was tossed at her feet; “Hurry and dry yourself, then get the fire started.” Obediently, she dried off her hair then body above the dress before slipping off her boots and discarding her now clammy, wet socks. The wooden floor was freezing beneath her feet yet Inayah had no other option.
She began to stack up the wood on the fire hearth and worked on burning it alive. The heat from the fire seemed to be sucked into the frigid air before ever reaching her frozen hands. She added more wood and poked it with long sticks.
It seemed to die a little as if unsure of itself, unready to devour the new offerings. It licked at the new logs like a nervous kitten and sent feeble sparks to die in the air. But after a time it found it’s confidence and grew until the heat warmed them, orange flames celebrated with their wild flickering dance.
Inayah peered over her shoulder hastily while lowering her numb hands to the flames. Once warm, she stepped away and picked the large black pot filled with water.
Mathilde was kneading dough when suddenly, her head cocked to the side and her body grew still in the silence. “Wait here,” she says, exiting the room.
Inayah continues rubbing her hands when she hears his familiar voice; deep yet sonorous from somewhere beyond the kitchen door. She fights the urge to walk up and peer out of the door but the temptation grows and in response, her feet quietly pivot towards the door.
“... I will be returning by night, do not wait up for me.” Salem stands by the grand entrance, dawned in the finest embroidered swan black coat that sits atop his broad shoulders. The hem is knit in gold, his polished boots reflecting the mansion in all its glory. His dark hair is slicked up into a ponytail, framing sharp, cold features.
Mathilde stands before him with either hand clasped and head bowed low. Her cheeks are flushed. Perhaps from the cold, Inayah thinks. The lady nods and bows slightly. “Yes, Master.”
Inayah slips back into the kitchen. She hears the door creak open then slam shut. Her curiosity as to where the man had gone peaks in her but only slightly as the head maid returns with a bitter scowl twisting her face. Inayah wonders then if she had ever smiled. And if she did, was she pretty?
“Kill the fire,” Mathilde instructed curtly, “pick a bucket and brush, begin scrubbing the floors along with the foyer, once done return for breakfast then takes all the drapes down and proceed to wash the windows and grills. Understood?”
Inayah nodded, feeling more or less miserable.
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