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Frida
The thin mat and frayed blanket aren't the most comfortable sleeping arrangement, but they are tolerable. And they're much better than sleeping in a damp gutter, shivering from the cold, covered by nothing but rags and old newspapers. At least the slave quarters are warm, and I wouldn't trade it for being back on the streets.
I lie back on the mat, trying to arrange my arms and head in a way that is comfortable, but still lets me see the closed door, the one that locks me in for the night. The one that currently has a scrap of pale blue fabric lodged within the locking mechanism, preventing the door from properly sealing shut. The senior slave, Kalina, walks past the line of cages, checking their doors. I watch as she approaches, my breathing tense. She can see my open eyes, see that I'm not asleep.
Kalina stops in front of my cage. Her fingers brush past the bolt and touch the piece of fabric preventing it from locking. She looks down at me, and I meet her eyes. But only for a second, as she gazes past me, as if she's seeing something beyond my sight. Then, without a word, her hand lifts from the door, and she continues on in her nightly checks.
I breathe a silent sigh of relief. I needed this, and Kalina was the only one that would let that slide. And I wasn't going to waste this opportunity.
Kalina continues down the row of cages, and the others around me settle into the predictable rhythms of sleep. I lie back, letting my eyes slip shut, keeping up the appearance that I'm doing the same. The only noises in the slave quarters are the gentle sounds of breathing and Kalina's sandals tapping on the stone floor as she walks back down the aisle. Then the sound of her footsteps fades as she leaves through the open doorway.
I don't know where Kalina sleeps the nights that she isn't in the slave quarters. I assume it's nicer than in a small cage, barely big enough to stretch out in. When I asked her about it once, she said it was a privilege of her seniority, but her tone was mixed.
Right now, I don't care about the why. It always happens the day before market day, which means it's her doing the nightly rounds instead of Ianthe. And then she leaves, not bothering to lock the door to the slave quarters. Why would she? All of us are locked behind heavy steel bars.
Occasionally someone shifts on the mat, or the rhythm of their breathing changes. I try and keep my breathing steady, waiting for the last of the light sleepers to drift off. But then I hear something else - muffled sobs. The kind that escape when you're trying to hold it in, but can't. Someone had a rough day, maybe got punished, maybe got overwhelmed, maybe just couldn't handle it all and keep it together.
It just means I have to wait longer. I prevent myself from falling asleep by chewing on my lip or pinching my wrist - anything I can think of to keep me awake. I have no way of keeping time, no window with which to track the path of the moon in the night sky. Eventually the sobs fade into muffled sniffles, and then that too turns into the rhythmic breathing of sleep.
I wait a few minutes longer, keenly listening for anything else. Nothing. So I go. I move with the utmost care, shifting my weight slowly so as to make as little noise as possible. I carefully edge the door open, using the fabric lodged in there to retract the latch from the inside. I tuck the piece back inside the folds of my tunic. The cage door swings open without squeaking, which is a blessing.
My bare feet make quiet footfalls on the stone floor. It's cold, and I wince, but manage to prevent myself from making any other sound. I close the cage door in the same way it was before, tucking the fabric between the frame and the latch, preventing it from engaging. Perfect. Now it looks just like someone fetched me, not that I ran away.
I'm careful walking past the couple of cages towards the door to the slave quarters - mine is thankfully quite close to the door already. I slip the door open, just wide enough for me to slip out, and close it behind me. The soft whine of its hinges makes me wince, but nobody wakes. Nobody yells. Nobody stops me.
I make my way through the dimly lit slave quarters. There are few, if any, windows lighting my way, and the oil lanterns have all been dimmed for the night. I navigate almost by feel rather than by sight, my hand brushing up against the wall in the narrow passages.
I've memorized the route by now. The corridors twist and turn as they navigate around the main rooms of the manor, those that are used by Mistress and the rest of her court. But it does provide an easy way of getting around the manor as nobody else uses these passageways at night.
A brighter light is visible up ahead, pouring out of a wide doorway which leads into the kitchens. My breathing quickens, and I'm suddenly aware of a nervous lump in my throat as I tip-toe towards the light. It could be anyone in there. I'm aware of the risk I'm taking, but I push forward anyway.
As I slip past the open door, I see her and my nervousness fades away. She's tucked herself into a corner next to the hearth, which illuminates the kitchen with a flickering, warm light. As I step forward, she turns, alerted by the sound of my footfalls, and I can see the smile on her face. "Cinta," I breathe, as loud as I dare, hurrying over to her.
"You made it!" she responds, in equally excited but hushed tones. She sits up a little, shuffling around on the blanket she had laid out on the floor. She's wearing the same uniform I am, except her sash is pink, indicating her status as a kitchen slave. Her arms open, beckoning me, and I don't hesitate, throwing myself into the embrace and burying my face into her shoulder. She wraps herself around my smaller figure and squeezes, holding me tight.
"I made it," I murmur into her chest. I breathe deeply, inhaling her scent. She smells like a mixture of campfire smoke and warm baked goods, and it's heavenly. Her body's warm from sitting so close to the fire, and her long dark hair tickles my face as she leans over me protectively.
Eventually we shift positions, and I lie my head across her chest. Even covered under the fabric of her uniform, she's soft and warm. One of her hands finds my hair and plays with it gently. "I was beginning to think something happened to you," she says gently, her voice kind but tinged with a hint of worry.
"One of the girls had a rough day," I say. "It took longer for her to get to sleep and I couldn't slip out until late."
Cinta nods, understanding. "I'm sorry," she says automatically. She's so kind, it's what drew me to her initially. Whenever I would be assigned to help in the kitchen, and she had to teach me, she was always kind, always held grace for my failings.
I shrug gently, not meaning for her to take the blame. "Not your fault. But I'm here now," I smile, lifting my head to be able to meet her eyes.
"Yes, you are." She smiles, and leans forward and plants her lips on my forehead. "And I wasn't waiting that long, anyway. We had lots to prepare for tomorrow's market, the rest of the kitchen staff only went to sleep a few hours ago."
I nod. The sleeping quarters for the kitchen slaves are a bit nicer than ours. They're more valuable to Mistress, so they get treated better. And you probably don't want someone tired and stiff while handling pots of hot boiling soup or something. "Was it a busy day then?" I ask. "I didn't see you at meal time."
"Always is," Cinta smiles. "We're getting ready to host some guests for the next few days. Some other house is coming to visit for a business dealing? Mistress is busy ensuring that everything is prepared for them."
"Who is it?" I say, out of curiosity. I don't really expect to know Mistress's guests. I will be beneath them, whoever they are.
"A delegation from House Ravenscroft, although I don't know who's part of the party." A shadow crosses over my face at the words, and Cinta notices it. "Do you know anything about them?"
I shrug. Memories are pulled unbidden to the front of my mind. A castle sitting atop a hill, looming over the village with its imposing slate stone towers. The guards that would sweep the streets in the evening, all wearing the same purple and black crest. And rumors, spread amongst the townspeople and those living on the streets, of the particularly vicious punishments the family would inflict on troublemakers in their domain. I push the memories away. "Not really. Just rumors. I tried to avoid them before I made my way up north and-"
My voice trails off, unfinished. Before I made my way up north, seeking somewhere easier to stay, some easier days and easier food. Before I was captured and forced into slavery. The words die on my tongue, unable to be voiced.
Cinta pulls me out of my brooding with a hand, gently caressing my cheek and tilting my chin back up towards her. "Dahlia," she says.
"That's my slave name," I whisper back, feeling my lips turn down in a pout.
"You are a slave." Cinta giggles, like we just shared an inside joke. "Do you really feel like a 'Frida' anymore?"
I shrug, shifting positions to nestle in a little closer. "No... not really," I admit. "That was the name of the girl who was barely surviving on the streets. Not... this." I gesture down at myself. A month ago my uniform hung loosely on my frame, and now I fill it out. My breasts, tummy, and hips have all rounded out, and you can no longer count my ribs. My uniform is clean and neat, and there isn't a layer of grime caked on my skin. Frida wouldn't recognize me if she saw me now.
"I like the name Dahlia. It suits you," Cinta says, brushing a short lock of hair out of my eyes. For a moment I'm caught staring back at her, our faces inches apart, our bodies tucked into the corner together. My eyes drop down to her lips, and I look away, my cheeks warming but not due to the heat of the fire beside us.
Cinta waits for a moment, giving me an odd sort of stare. "Dahlia," she breathes again, and my eyes are pulled up to meet hers. She has such pretty eyes, and her face is so close to mine. I can feel her breath on my face. "You're beautiful, Dahlia," she murmurs, her eyes still locked on mine.
"I-I... I don't, I'm not sure," I stumble out, uncertain of myself, but my voice trails off. Her hand finds mine and squeezes, and I squeeze back. My cheeks are probably pink now given how warm they feel, and I hope they aren't as visible in the flickering light as I think they are. Cinta doesn't comment on it.
She leans forward. Her lips touch mine, and I flinch away. Immediately I can see the worry and hurt blossom on her face. "Sorry, I shouldn't-" she starts to apologize, but I interrupt her.
"No!" My voice is louder than it needs to be, and I repeat myself again, words tumbling out over one another in my haste. I squeeze hard on Cinta's hand, anchoring me as memories from my past - from Frida's past - come to the front. "No, it's... I just... I have bad uh, memories of that."
My voice drops quiet, and I look up, meeting her eyes again. She's looking at me with such a tender, protective look it sends a rush of affection down my body. "Please," I whisper, "just... be gentle."
Cinta reaches up her other hand to my cheek. Her touch is impossibly soft, and I reach up to hold the hand there. Her fingers intertwine with mine, and she nods, understanding. "I will," she breathes, and leans in again, slowly, and delicately.
I don't flinch away this time when her lips touch mine. I don't pull back when she pushes forward, her hand on my cheek pulling me into the kiss. She lets out a muted noise deep in her throat, a strangled expression of passion and need, and hearing it lights a fire in my veins.
The smooth fabric of our tunics brushes past each other, and I'm acutely aware of the way her breast is pressing against mine, and the way my thighs clench together. That was nothing like any of my past experiences, fumbling, scared, or forced - unpleasant, violating encounters that leave me feeling sick for hours afterward. I feel none of that here right now.
When she pulls back, we're both breathing heavily. "I've been thinking about doing that for days," Cinta whispers, between breaths. Her hand reaches up to brush down my hair and the back of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. "Just wondering if I would be able to. If we'd even find time for it."
I nod. Something stirs inside me, and I can't stop staring at her lips. "I want... can we do that again?" I ask, hearing a needy, wanting note slip into my voice.
Cinta doesn't answer with words. She leans forward again, and captures my lips in a kiss that is much less tentative. I melt into her movement, arching my back as her hand runs down my spine and pulls me close. My hand latches onto her waist and holds on with a strength I didn't know I had. Cinta lets out a delicate moan at the touch and leans into me, pressing her hips up against mine. The noise just intensifies the fire inside me and I push back into the embrace, heedless of the little moans and gasps that escape my lips.
Her teeth catch my bottom lip and bite down gently, drawing a gasp from my throat and causing my mouth to slip open. Her tongue takes advantage of the opening, sliding past my teeth as she leans forward, bearing down on me. My hands scramble for something to hold onto, wrapping around her back and grabbing fistfuls of her tunic. She pulls me tight against her and I can feel the warmth radiating from her body, matching my own. I shudder in her arms as her tongue explores my mouth, drawing louder and louder noises from my throat.
Cinta pulls back a little, leaving my lips hanging open, desperate and wanting. She plants kisses one by one up my cheek, each one sending small bolts of electricity down my spine. "Careful," she murmurs, her breath tickling my ear. "You'll wake the whole manor up if you start moaning like that."
I flush bright red, leaning forward and burying my face in the crook of her neck. Cinta lets out a pleased hum at that and pulls me close, and I wrap myself around her like I can't possibly get enough of her warmth, of her scent. Like I'm trying to savor every single touch she has for me because nobody has ever touched me like this before, with this amount of affection and grace. I don't know what to make of the emotional turmoil inside me, so I push it aside and try and stay in the present. All we will get is these few, precious moments.
Cinta seems to recognize some of what I need, and pulls me close. Soft, gentle kisses pepper my forehead as her hands trace patterns on my back. "Dahlia," she whispers into my hair. "Cinta," I whisper back. Slave names, chosen by our Mistress. But names for who we are now. Names for the girls who snuck out of their cages, trading a night's sleep for a few hours to be alone together.
An incredibly warm feeling blossoms in my chest as I lie there, my limbs intertwined with Cinta's, warmed by the dying light of the fire and the heat of our passion. It takes me a moment to identify it, and when I finally do, I let out a soft, contented sigh, twisting my neck to plant a kiss on Cinta's exposed collarbone. "I think... I think I'm happy," I whisper almost inaudibly, afraid that voicing the feeling will let it disappear, let it dissolve in the air around us.
Cinta giggles in response. "I'm happy you're happy," she murmurs, punctuating the sentence with another kiss. It seems absurd, the feeling dancing in my heart, but it's real, and I cling to it and don't let it escape. Cinta cups my chin in her hand and lifts. Her lips look so soft in the warm flickering light. "Would you still be happy if I kissed you some more?" she asks with a sly, teasing lilt.
I nod quickly. "Please," I say. It's all I need before our lips are pressed together again, her tongue in my mouth and mine in hers. I discover that Cinta makes these needy, desperate gasping sounds when I trail kisses down her neck in just the right spot, and it makes me want to hear those again. Her hands explore my body, tracing down my sides to my hips, and slipping underneath the folds of my tunic. I do the same, my touch inexperienced and tentative at first, but gaining confidence as she guides me, shows me how. In the safety of her arms I lose track of time, my heart overflowing with warmth for the first time in as long as I can remember.
The fire in the hearth slowly burns out as the night goes on, dancing flames giving way to smoldering coals and ash.