Page 5 of Tangwystle
He shook his head, a bemused smile showing up again. “I can manage making myself a bit of tea. But I do have one question.”
I waited.
“Your name?” he asked.
“Oh.” Right, I’d never introduced myself. “I’m Tangwystle.”
two
The town,like most of this world, was a cold, dark place.
The Manor gate shut behind me with a groan, and I pulled my black cloak tighter as I marched down the hill. The factories filled the skyline with a hazy gray smoke, and my eyes itched for a moment before a strong breeze frosted my face.
For seven years, I’d taken this path, going down the hill to get to town. I passed rows of manors, spread out and owned by wealthy merchants and powerbrokers. The only men in nicer houses were the ones on the Council.
The manors were tall and wide, sprawling things, made of dark stone and iron. Gates, with tips on each slat, enclosed each property. The plots of land separated the individual families while the gates kept scavengers away.
My feet crunched against the frost-lined ground. The riverbank curved toward dark stone buildings that made up the town. I dodged a cart, a man nodding as he passed before steadily avoiding my eyes.
I can promise you, I’m not a witch. No servant is.
But I’d leaned into the illusion. No one has ever feared a female servant, and with Blackwell Manor empty for so long, it helped for people to be wary.
And I’d always been a little ghoulish. With my pale face and dark hair. I’d heard the whispers.
“Strange little dark squinty eyes,” I once heard the baker say to his wife until she hushed him.
I didn’t think I had squinty eyes, unless I stood in the sun. Though I did find myself often staring at things until I figured them out. Such as when I needed to do math to make sure no merchant was ripping me off. Most think women and servants know nothing about reading or math. But thanks to my grandmother, I could do both.
She passed away by the time I turned eighteen, but she taught me not to be a fool. And that had gone a great way. It meant I understood the contract Master Blackwell had me sign. I ensured there was no clause about corporal punishment.
I filled my basket with bread and tea, the morning market buzzing. Before his death, Master Blackwell had stayed on a strict diet of soup, due to how he struggled with his teeth in his old age.
Baz, with his bright smile, would not have the same issue. I stopped by the butchers.
With a heavy basket full of supplies, I intended to make my way back home when I spotted her—Gretel.
She passed by on the street, and when she noticed me, I realized her smile could only be rivaled by Baz’s.
“Good morning, Tangwystle.” She didn’t stop, but I felt her eyes linger on me as we crossed paths. My chin turned to look over my shoulder, and for a moment, I met her gaze, her green eyes brighter in the crisp sunlight.
I knew Gretel’s curly blonde hair was soft. And on that day, the curls snaked around her shoulders, bouncing as she walked.
She stood taller than I. Not that that’s a hard feat. And her lithe body swayed as she laughed, the noise vibrating in her throat.
I stomped away.
I found Gretel from Clinemell Manor infuriating.
She smiled too much. Like Baz.
And she always asked to borrow stuff from our kitchen. Of course, smiling as she did so. Not keeping track of one’s kitchen ingredients was hardly something to be amused about.
The only commonality we shared was our status. Female servants, without a lick of magic to protect us.
A shiver ran through me as the wind cut through my cloak. I tugged the material tighter, struggling with the overloaded basket. I added some tarts at the last minute, thinking Baz Coldwell seemed the type to enjoy a sweet treat with his tea.
If it turned out to be the worst thing about him—that he was the frivolous type—I supposed I could deal with it.
