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UnderWorld
UnderWorld
UnderWorld
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UnderWorld

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It was war, and that made it all right. A servant girl is caught at ground zero of the Great Calamity, sparking a war that forces the inhabitants of a fractured world together underground in dreary subsistence. But her survival comes with a gift, and a curse, passed on to her bitter, cynical daughter who wants nothing more than to break free of the UnderWorld, and she's bringing down the house.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateSep 10, 2012
ISBN9781301064137
UnderWorld
Author

Michael McDonald

Writer, reader, ranter; Michael J. McDonald likes an eclectic range of things, but not bananas. He started writing stories before he could write by hand, sticking printed words together to form the sentences in his first days of school, then bothering the teacher to print off more so he could complete his epic. Things have come full circle, as due to injury he finds himself again unable to write by hand, but thanks to the magic box on his desk his prose continues to flow. Unless somebody is wrong on a forum. Being a grumpy misanthropist with a cane leads to a particularly disillusioned undercurrent in his writing, but it's not all doom and gloom. Sometimes he lets most of the characters live. Though sometimes they'll wish they didn't. Michael has been published by Quantum Muse magazine, Wherever It Pleases e-zine, Books To Go Now and the University of Glasgow Student Association. He is currently working on a sequel to Underworld and a more adult novel that is a cheerful story of teen angst, rebellion and death.

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    UnderWorld - Michael McDonald

    UnderWorld

    by

    Michael J. McDonald

    Smashwords Edition

    * * * * *

    Published by Michael J. McDonald at Smashwords

    Cover Art by Gustave Doré (1832-1883)

    UnderWorld

    Copyright 2012 by Michael J. McDonald

    "Before me things create were none, save things

    Eternal, and eternal I endure.

    All hope abandon ye who enter here."

    – Dante Aligierhi, The Divine Comedy

    Prologue: The Spark That Lit the Fire

    Special Production Of Educational Advancements [Royal Service]

    Portman Island Test Facility

    Allied Islands

    3433 After the Common Era

    It was war, and that made it all right.

    In reality the war had not begun yet, but it would. He had foreseen it. He had engineered it. Like the butterfly whose careless flaps stir the air just so, brewing a storm a thousand miles away, Doctor White's own measured motions had already nudged the fragile alliance system of the Middle-Kingdoms down a track from which they could never steer away. It had not taken much, no. They were ever eager for war; they dragged themselves to the edge many times without his machinations. It was enough to merely make the tipping inevitable. All it took was a little push.

    These kingdoms were on the march to war, they simply had not yet noticed. And it would not be just any war. It would be the war to end all wars, a war so ferocious that in its wake any claim to a scrap of dirt on this ball of mud hurtling through the heavens would be futile. The concept of territory itself would become meaningless, as the world united under one roof.

    Quite literally.

    His SPEARS colleagues had no knowledge of the greater plan, but they could not escape the truth that what they were about to do would forever change the course of history. Men and women in robes the colour of sunrise, the uniform of the enlightened, rushed around him in a blur. He barely took them in, his gaze focused on the narrow slit of dawn set high in the wall a few feet in front of him. A wall several feet thicker than that.

    Commence primary ignition, came a voice, both at his side and deep in his ear. Clamped to the side of his head was a curl of white seashell, briefly buzzing after reciting the voice. The Doctor admired the ingenious device gifted to them by nature, which allowed shells grown within the same pod to transmit sounds to each other across great distances. What curious properties these creatures exhibited. It almost made one think they were made with human purposes in mind. What would a creator think of what the doctor had built now? The Doctor touched his ear, adjusting the shell. He could hear the people at his side well enough, for the moment, but there were those out elsewhere in the facility's grounds that he also needed to keep track of. And soon things would be getting very, very noisy.

    All stations reporting ignition, containment stable.

    Doctor White nodded his balding head. Within ten seconds, the containers would flood the main chamber with cooling fluid to halt the reaction, if he did not give the order. They had started and stopped this procedure so many times over the past few weeks, through one error or another preventing a safe test. Ha, safe! If only they knew, if only they understood... But this time everything was all present and correct. He felt almost apprehensive to speak the words, in case his drawing of breath unbalanced the system and the test failed once more. Of course that was impossible, he had checked every calculation himself. It would work, this time. Probably. That was quantum for you.

    You may fire when ready.

    Buttons clicked. There was the quiet hum of hydraulics, shaking the stones beneath his feet. And then the room went white.

    Doctor White had no need to close his eyes, for he had seen brighter things than that. For the rest of his crew the narrow slat at the top of the building poured light of such ferocity on them they had to duck behind their desks and cover their heads with their arms to escape its blazing rays.

    Even that could not protect them from the roar.

    Chapter I: Waltzing Mathilda

    16 Years Later

    City of Joshua

    UnderWorld

    Allied Islands

    3449 ACE

    The world has changed, a calm voice, ringing with clarity and control, seeps through the warm darkness. "As little as a generation ago, just before you were born, the world was bright and beautiful, filled with lush green grasses and tall oak trees. The Islands were surrounded by cool, clear waters and far across the wide ocean there was a much larger land, the Cohr Continent.

    This continent was divided up into various countries and regions, ruled over by a wealthy aristocracy who had grown accustomed to a monarchical system of government, and so these regions were named the 'Middle-Kingdoms', standing at the centre of the world as a barrier of civilisation between the advanced people of the Islands and the wilds democratic hordes of the East. The monarchs came from long lines of highly regarded, powerful families, and their pride led them to feud with each other for the sake of their family name. For their inch of a history book. And for the money, of course. Natural resources and all their peoples' energies were poured into construction of their war machines, to take over the natural resources and peoples of their neighbours. They raced to develop their kingdoms' technologies, especially in armaments, and became embroiled in war. Their weapons were so advanced that the war was brief, but devastating. Liberi kingdom, a largely agricultural and intellectual economy, was the first to be completely and utterly destroyed by a single weapon in what we now know as The Great Calamity.

    The voice began to fade, muffled under the hot air and crackling flame pressing in.

    Our noble Allied Islands had remained neutral in these turf wars for years, though some doom-sayers peddle conspiracy theories that the Oligarchs were selling advanced weaponry to all sides. But the Executive objected to the sheer destructive power of the weaponry held by the Middle-Kingdoms, and so the Board of Congress sent our brave soldiers to counteract the threat. They risked and often lost their lives to battle the mindless monarchs who were grappling for land and prestige. They attacked, launching their magical weapons at us and poisoning our air with the plague of Surface Sickness. Thousands were killed in the cowardly destruction of Keyworn, a city of a half million people. But we could not be routed. So, that is why, some sixteen years ago your parents all came down here to the UnderWorld, where we could live without breathing in the toxic fallout left behind from those dreadful weapons.

    The floor began to tip. Her head swayed. Sleep was coming.

    Nikana, are you paying attention?

    The teacher gazed over the rims of her half-moon spectacles at the slight teenage girl, who was just resting her eyes, honest, miss. Her chin was nestled in her sleeves. The strict bowl-cut of black hair quivered to her deep breaths, while in the autonomy of sleep she was scraping her nail rhythmically against a rough scab she had sustained on her arm. She jerked her head up into the airspace of the teacher's stern look, wrapping her fingers tightly over the mark and turning her skin even whiter. It was already pale, not that it was much different from the rest of the sun-starved children sharing her pen each day. But it was different enough. Naturally they picked on her, until the concussion incident. That had been Nikana’s own Great Calamity.

    Yes, miss. Of course, she replied with a smile, its falseness she barely bothered to conceal. Nikana had never enjoyed History in all her decade of doing it in the cramped, poorly constructed school. It had always disturbed her that she was expected to answer questions on events which she had not witnessed, based on accounts which were already written down for her.

    Good, the teacher replied with a sarcastic smile of her own. Then perhaps you could answer one of my questions?

    Yes, though I would like to ask a question of my own if I may, Nikana responded, a bright and troublesome idea brewing in her mind. She did not wait for the teacher's permission, plunging on whilst her tutor was taken aback by the sudden burst of politeness. How did the Middle-Kingdoms manage to launch weapons all the way over here? They are so very far away.

    The teacher paused, glancing uncomfortably to the side of Nikana's wide-eyed, angular face. Away from her eyes. Nikana continued. My parents came to the Islands on a dragon, but those are rare, and ships take six weeks to travel here. I don't see how they could get any of those magical weapons here in the two weeks between the start of the war and the date that our timetables say the first one was detonated on Portman Island. I think such weapons must have been here already, if they could be detonated so soon. Perhaps they stole some of our own; we are always told how advanced we were in comparison with other lands, so if they had these weapons, why not us?

    The teacher snorted and spoke down to Nikana with a slight laugh. Don't be so silly, child. Of course, things were rather disorganised during the war, so there are bound to be some inconsistencies in the dates and times. And we operate on a different calendar from the Middle-Kingdoms. But we were attacked for trying to bring peace into the world.

    By forbidding other countries from having weapons we likely had ourselves?

    The teacher's lip twitched. She repeated, We were attacked for trying to bring peace into the world. Remember that fact, she added shrilly, raising her finger in the air to call attention to the crucial point. It is one of your required outcomes in the War Origins unit.

    Sure, Nikana sighed. Always the same; any time she bothered to take an interest in a school subject, she could not get a straight answer. She only brightened up again when the small bell tolled in it tower above them, signalling her release from History class. It was meant to be a larger bell, but the architect had forgotten the limitations of having a cave roof only a few dozen feet overhead. This left the tower shorter than planned, and only large enough to hold a bell so pathetic that the older teachers could not hear it, rambling on far beyond when any reasonable child could be expected to still listen. The youngsters surrounding Nikana hastily gathered their things and burst out the building, chatting with their friends, becoming bricks in an incoherent wall of noise. Nikana carefully placed everything into her cloth satchel and crept out of the door.

    She reached her home a little more quickly. Joshua, as the place had come to be called after a lengthy and expensive bureaucratic process, was not large. It consisted of small buildings of the dark, dusty brown sandstone huddled close together in a hastily excavated cavern beneath the Surface. Getting lost was not so much an issue of a sprawling city layout as it was everything looking the same. The mind adapts, however, and Nikana's mind carried her without thought to her front door. As it clattered to a close her father glanced up from his desk; his parchment strewn study had taken over their front room. He gave her a brief greeting.

    How was school? he asked, already returning part of his attention back to his quill as it scraped along the thick crème paper.

    Fine, Nikana replied with her voice in complete neutrality, and did not utter another word. She simply kissed him on the cheek as she shuffled past and headed into her room, dropping the satchel wearily on the wooden floor. She flung herself onto her short bed. Nikana let out an exhausted grunt. Though her day had been far from taxing, she always felt her energy draining by the second in that place. It had been a while since they had tried something, but she could not let her guard down, and keeping the proverbial eyes in the back of her head open every moment required constant effort. And that last time, it seemed as though the second sight had not been so proverbial.

    Nikana felt a little guilty as she lay there. She had always known that her father was merely an adoptive parent and so had never been bothered by it and accepted his love with enthusiasm. That did not mean she could not treat him like a real parent and lie about school being ‘fine’ every day of her life.

    What else could she have said? She was not in the mood for an hour long grilling session over whether the teachers were giving her a hard time again, or whether that boy was making trouble. Besides, while schooling was such a tiresome intrusion on her quest for knowledge and interest, it seemed that was entirely the point. So, from a certain point of view, it was doing its job just fine.

    Nikana lay still for several minutes, attempting to relax herself, muscle by tense, hot muscle. No good. She rose up into a sitting position on the side of her bed with a sigh. She lifted the flap of her satchel and drew out a heavily bound history book, leaning back against her thin pillow and flipping it open at a narrow golden strand of ribbon she had inserted into her favourite page. She had only ever enjoyed one lesson in History, where she had been educated on the life of a Princess of Liberi Kingdom, whose assassination was commonly perceived as causing the start of the Great Calamity. The spark that lit the fire, they said.

    There was a picture in her book of the princess, but on the page Nikana’s eyes always fell to, there was another image, of the girl’s older sister, Queen of Liberi. It was a very realistic pencil sketch portrait, drawn by a skilled artist not long before the princess' death. The Queen still smiled. Nikana admired the lady for her striking beauty, with the classical high cheekbones, the sleek and shining dark hair, the large and sparkling eyes and the full, rounded lips. Her skin, according to the drawing, was smooth and flawless, sans a tiny dark mark on her left cheek, which somehow managed to only add to her beauty. Most of all, however, Nikana admired the strength and focus which she believed she saw in those eyes, judging that the Queen must have been a highly determined and just character. She had prepared for war with a powerful enemy, before being turned to dust in the Great Calamity.

    Although Nikana knew she had been adopted, her parents had died very shortly after her birth, and so she did not have any memory of them. Her father, her adoptive father, had filled her in with details of their lives as she had grown up, much of which she had disregarded as being too preposterous to be true and having been designed to comfort her with the idea of her parents being heroes and having died for something. Yet why should she be any different from the dozens of other orphans left in this region of the UnderWorld? So many of the adults had died from Surface Sickness when they first arrived in Joshua. She doubted her parents' fate had been any different. Besides, her father was a politician, he was bound to try to put the most positive spin on any unfortunate information. He would probably call losing a leg a ‘re-evaluation of physical structure’.

    She had always wanted to believe, though, one detail of their lives. Nikana was desperate to believe that she had been correctly informed her mother had been a servant to the princess, and to the Queen, and was thought by many to look very much like her majesty. She still had no memory of her real father, but at least now she could picture her mother. And, of course, the picture was highly flattering to her mother's image, which filled Nikana with a small measure of pride in her own appearance, something which had been lacking in her throughout her early life, being scrutinized by that damn doctor and interfering teachers who insisted she was not filling out correctly.

    Perhaps if there was something other than potatoes to eat, she would make more effort.

    The girl reached lazily down into her bag again whilst still lounging back against the pillow. She retrieved a small pencil. Carefully resting the book against her thighs, she proceeded to scrape a grey line through the name printed beneath the portrait of the Queen, and wrote in small, neat letters below it: MATHILDA GARNET.

    * * *

    Barracks of the Royal Guard

    Fatali City

    Middle-Kingdoms

    3433 ACE

    It was war, and that made it all right. He was the enemy, and what happened to him was what happens to enemies. His death might as well be put down as natural causes. It was the way of the world.

    Micold tried to tell himself these things, over and over again. He had never needed to before, they had always just been there, in his head. They were known rules that he couldn't fathom not following, like narrowing his eyes to bright light or dying when he fell off a cliff. It was the natural order of things, and yet this time it didn't feel... right. Or just. And wasn't that his job, to guard Justice against the agents of Chaos in neighbouring kingdoms?

    What about those in his own? No, don't think about that. He'd be reunited with the captured enemy all too soon if he followed that path.

    That man had died pleading for his life, professing his innocence. He hadn't died like a soldier at all. Micold wasn't sure that he really was. Best not to think about that, either. And he didn't want to even begin turning his mind to the woman.

    You alright, Mic?

    Micold looked up, realising only then that he had been staring at his feet, so lost in thought he had wandered across the castle grounds to the barracks purely on instinct. His feet could find their way around even on the darkest night, and evidently without his brain being in the same kingdom, he was so used to these surroundings he had been raised in. Standing there in the doorway of the low, slate-roofed barracks that was little more than a shed for sleeping in and storing armour, was someone else who had been raised within the castle grounds, someone who had shared the years of bleeding and sweating in preparation to shed even more in honourable service. Micold nodded to his friend. Hello, Pilate.

    Pilate was a handsome young man, as all the Fatali soldiers were. The only old soldiers were the ones who didn't get field assignments, and they were rich enough they didn't need looks. He lasted, huh?

    Micold sighed and leaned against the wall, facing into the doorway. Within he saw the bloodstained grass again, and a scorched stake. He blinked away the vision. He kept struggling. Couldn't keep him still. I don't know why, where could he go, even if he got free?

    People will do anything to live a little longer, Pilate replied, with the tone of experience.

    If they want to live longer they shouldn't become spies, Micold hit back, surprising himself with his fervour to get that point across.

    Pilate snorted. Whatever helps you sleep at night.

    What do you mean?

    Well, Pilate began, glancing around. He leaned in closer to say, You really think everyone we've executed this month was a spy?

    If that's what it says on the termination order.

    My friend, you really think Liberi has enough agents to spare to send a half dozen a week here? Laura's getting fat on a diet of spies.

    Micold turned to look back across the flagstoned ground towards the wall of the castle. Just outside there, on the Green, two people had met their deaths not ten minutes before in the jaws of Laura. As execution methods went, she wasn't the most efficient, but the death was never meant to be swift. It was to be spectacular.

    She wasn't even hungry this time, Micold mused, almost to himself. We had to agitate her to get her to bite.

    Pilate followed his gaze. Yeah, that's what happens when you feed a dragon every single day.

    Used to be once or twice a month, Micold said.

    Used to be a lot less you could be executed for, his friend pointed out.

    What do you think those two did? Micold asked, finding that his stomach churned at the prospect of the answer more than the grisly stains on the Green.

    Pilate shrugged. You heard their screams, you tell me.

    Micold thought on it, though he didn't really wish to. In their attempt to draw a last minute confession, the only information the man had been prepared to give up was that they were both involved in something called the Project. And, regardless of what Micold and his colleagues thought, this was not some conspiracy to undermine the authority of the kingdom or an attempt at sabotage by outside forces. It was something so secret they could not disclose a single detail of it, on orders of Prince Ridicully himself.

    Whatever it was, Micold said, They must have angered the Prince Regent.

    * * *

    Palace of Liberi

    Liberi Kingdom

    3433 ACE

    The room hummed. Not just in the proverbial sense, which came about by a vile concoction of stale beer, stinging spirits and most probably vomit, all of which conspired together to vibrate through the maid's nose. She was armed with her heavy glass vials of perfume, her kerchief for a shield. Mists rose across the plush sheets of the freshly made bed, and settled in pinkish droplets on the thick, purple pillow of the Prince.

    Yet there was also a literal humming, the sound of this mechanically cheerful young lady bustling around, comfortably numb in her routine which had grown so familiar she was not aware at all of the objects she was looking at. The sounds of clattering dishes and chiming glasses never entered her ears as she swiftly scooped them onto a silver tray. She placed the tray on the ornate wooden dresser, right between a miniature oak wardrobe which acted as a rather fancy jewellery box, and the well-worn mirror of her mistress' eldest brother. Each object was scratched and marked from years of careless handling and aggressive cleaning. When she was in his highness' room, she did not take her time.

    The maid turned from the tray, hitching up the skirts of her crisp white robes as she crouched to retrieve general debris from the floor. Her fingers had just wrapped around a discarded glove when her mind jolted into alertness. She stopped humming, but the tune continued.

    "I walk with wounds and carry scars

    I still don't sleep at night

    I see you every single day

    My favourite colour still is white, a slippery voice completed the ages-old ditty, sliding like a garish silk handkerchief across the perfume scented room. That's quite a classy tune for a servant girl to know. Tell me, Mathilda, where did you learn it?"

    Mathilda grimaced. She twisted in her crouch and stumbled onto her knee. Her highness the Queen has been having us instructed in literature and history, sir, she replied to the Prince, who swiftly nodded his initial startled reaction off of his face.

    Ah, yes, he said, and smiled. Not that I was implying, mind you, that there was any reason for you not to know of such things. You may be a handmaiden, but your appearance belies that stature. In fact, you look almost like dear Nathalie herself!

    Idiot, had he not been paying attention? She had been standing in the Queen's place at every public engagement for the last two months, now that the threat of assassination had grown considerably. His own sister, and he could not tell the difference. Of course, that was part of the point, but surely her own brother, her would-be successor…

    I have been her body double on occasion, sir, for her security, Mathilda responded. She nibbled on her lip and lowered her eyes in discomfort at the attempted flattery. But if you'll excuse me, Cathriona and I are expected to lay her highness' table for this evening. She tried not to stress too much that it was approaching dinner, and yet only now had she managed to get into the Prince's room to clean it. Throughout the rest of the day she had found the curtains drawn and the snoring loud. And the smell had been even more obnoxious than his drunken rasps. And then we must prepare for tonight's celebration.

    Mmm, indeed, the ball. What's the occasion again?

    It is her majesty's twenty-second birthday, sir, Mathilda said, grinding her teeth in frustration behind her faux smile. She was tempted to sigh, but only clenched a fist behind her back.

    Yes, well, he began, not noticing Mathilda's silent scoff at him, nor seeming concerned about the answer he received. I trust my sister will be able to spare your and your companions' services long enough tonight for a dance? A smile crept over his lips at the thought, and they curled around almost to the back of his tailed hair, which was kept long to detract from the collection of scars on the cranium above it, gained in various expeditions to the ground following a valiant battle with the bottle.

    Of course, sir, Mathilda replied before swiftly bobbing her way out of the room with a curtsey. She finally allowed herself that sigh as her hands hauled the door to a close at her back, and squeezed the smooth brass handle to try to relieve her tension. She rested for a moment, wrung her hands, and then marched off to work again, thanking Nixon that the Prince had not been the one to inherit the throne.

    When Mathilda arrived in the dim candlelight of the dining room, she saw Cathriona had already begun. Well drilled, she worked with speed yet also great care, laying out the ornate mats and expensive cutlery in precisely calculated positions upon the polished surface of the long wooden table, and replacing the stubby working candles with the tall, decorative dinner ones. Candles were needed even in the early evening for those working in the middle of the larger chambers of the palace; once twilight hit, the sun's dying rays could scarcely make the centre of the huge rooms through their tall, narrow windows. Mathilda, sliding back into the instinctive process of serving, walked behind her partner and began to retrieve the glassware.

    That man is impossible, Mathilda grumbled. She reached over the shoulder of her friend to lay a lengthy wineglass on the table. They knew the place for everything and could have prepared the table for dinner in their sleep. Sometimes, Mathilda pretty much had.

    Prince Mial? Cathriona replied, not even glancing away from her duty. He probably thinks the same thing about us. And he's right, the one thing he wants from us is definitely impossible.

    Mathilda laughed, and even Cathriona smiled. The two finished off their setting of the table, and lit the final thick candle. As they slipped away they continued their conversation over the hubbub of arriving guests and dignitaries.

    He doesn't have much of a chance no matter how many times he tries, Cathriona said, smiling knowingly. Besides, his wife would never allow it.

    Later, in hazy mists of sweet and stinging perfumes, and a cacophony of airy giggles and rumbling wardrobes and dressers, the Queen's entourage of handmaidens busily decorated themselves for their duties at the imminent ball. Whilst the royal family actually deigned to do some work in entertaining their guests from the neighbouring kingdoms, the handmaidens were obliged to dress in their 'best' outfits, which the prematurely aged Prince Mial had informed them was a polite way of saying 'the most expensive thing you would never wear on a religious holiday'. He had a tendency to thrust to the heart of the matter...

    Nevertheless, the Queen's servants felt themselves something of a sisterhood and so had decided on matching gowns. And on servants' salaries that was a relief; it was always cheaper to buy items which were not unique.

    We only had these fitted a fortnight ago! How could I have grown so large since then? Mathilda exclaimed. She turned in circles, constantly trying to catch a glimpse of the back of her skirt in the mirror, and shook her head at the thought her legs had grown several inches. She was taller, she was fuller, and she was growing red in exasperation. This was impossible! And intolerable; a higher hem and binding bodice were the last things she needed with the Prince slithering about.

    Well, you were on kitchen duty last week, a colleague responded, grinning. Maybe you were doing too much taste-testing?

    I did not have time for taste-testing, Mathilda replied. And besides, how could that account for my legs becoming longer?

    Did you do anything to displease Prince Mial? suggested another maid. Perhaps he put you on the rack.

    I think she would remember being tortured, Cathriona cut in. She reached over the speaker's head to lift a gleaming ivory brush from the top of their dresser. The quartermaster would never have allowed mere servants to requisition such finery, but the Queen had a habit of leaving things lying around. A habit the girls silently appreciated. Perhaps your dress was mistakenly put on her hangar? The height would fit, she finished, glancing down. The young servant was half a head shorter than Mathilda, who had not grown to a considerable height herself.

    You're all just jealous of my legs and I, the short servant said haughtily, flicking back her dark mane and snorting. Then she broke into laughter, followed by Cathriona and a slightly bewildered Mathilda.

    Five minutes, girls, the usher chirruped from the doorway. His eyes were wrapped in silk, a gesture designed to make the young ladies feel more comfortable with his constant popping to and fro as they tried to prepare for these engagements. He turned back toward the corridor, and blundered directly into the arched door-frame. Oof.

    The girls giggled again.

    And I always worried he could see through that, Cathriona said. Perhaps not.

    Perhaps that's what he wants you to think, added another girl with a waggle of her sculpted eyebrows.

    Mathilda winced. No, I don't think he'd go to such lengths just to see us in our shifts. He's bleeding. As she spoke she was already stepping across the dressing room, the size of her dress forgotten, as the usher held his nose and staggered. He almost tumbled into a wooden laundry horse laden with underwear before she got her arms around him. Let me see it, she whispered.

    Ibs pine, gurgled the usher.

    Show me, Mathilda commanded. And take that bloody thing off. I'm quite sure we are on the same team here.

    With a sigh of reluctance he let the blindfold fall, and Mathilda could see his eyes beginning to swell already. His nose was spattered around the nostrils with blood, and a trail of it ran over his lip. She took the scrap of silk and pressed it gently there. It would not absorb much, but if she could clean it up a little that might help him feel more comfortable while he waited for a doctor.

    Gah... the man grumbled, trying to draw back his nose from her dabbing.

    Oh hold still, Mathilda said, wrapping her fingers in his hair and holding his head in place. I'm sure it's broken. You should see the doctor, she can give you herbs for the pain.

    Ib dunt hurb.

    It will in the morning, Mathilda assured him. She wrinkled her own nose at a memory. The rest of the girls insisted there was nothing there, but she could still feel the bump.

    Thagoo, the usher said, nodding his

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