Excerpt: Lily of the Valley

Lily’s eyebrows shot up. This civilian boy, who was perhaps only a year or two older than she was, seemed to think he held a lot of sway with the Masters. She put on her best haughty expression, yanked her arm back forcefully, and made a rude gesture, one of the ones she wasn’t supposed to know, but that Olivia and Kate had taught her behind Jana’s back the last time she had visited. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Pick it up!” he pointed at the mess all around his feet. “Pick it up, or I’ll – I’ll tell on you. I’ll tell Master Arthur on you.”

That made Lily pause. If Arthur knew she’d been running, he’d probably make her stay in the apartment for the rest of the day. And how did this boy know Arthur, anyway? And how could he know that Arthur was Lily’s Master?

The boy seemed to realize he’d gained the upper hand. “Clean it up, and apologise, or I’ll tell Master Arthur you were running.”

Very slowly, Lily knelt down and started to gather the books and papers. He was right; she’d spilled ink all over. Although what someone was doing walking around with an open inkwell was beyond her; one of the first things she’d learned was that inkwells were always to be stoppered when one was walking.

And he didn’t even help her. He sat and watched, arms crossed, looking quite pleased with himself. Lily’s ears grew hot, and she grew angrier and angrier with each book she stacked, each dripping page she sopped up with the hem of her already filthy robe. She was going to have to wash it tonight. It didn’t matter that she’d already planned to.

“Don’t forget the apology,” the boy said. Lily shot him a look of cold rage, and gestured a curt one.

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean? What did you just say to me?” the boy snapped, alarmed. Lily looked at him, incredulous. He hadn’t just missed her insult before, he interpreted her apology as one?

“Say you’re sorry! Say it, or –“

Lily snatched up a pen and one of the ruined sheets of paper, and didn’t even bother with ink. She hadn’t much practice with letters – no one forced her. But she figured that writing was just like drawing, and she read more than enough to know how to spell.

S O R R Y she wrote carefully, laboriously, wishing as she often did that she could at least make sounds because she thought the pain might have eased a bit if she could scream. By the first R she had to swallow repeatedly so as not to choke. She finished the Y, spat on the page at the boy’s feet, and turned and ran.