Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 134898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
I’ll make sure they see past the skirts. I’m going to pitch them the moment I leave the barracks and wear my trousers instead. Just in case. I’d rather have my arse hanging out than have them think I’m not serious about things.
My small pack is over my shoulder, and I’m hugged by four other women—all maids living in the barracks—before I make it out the door. Then I duck into an alley, shimmy off the skirt that’s over my pants, and head on toward the main guild hall.
Even before I get there, I can see the crowd forming outside. My stomach flutters with anxiety. There are men everywhere. I see men with dark cloaks, men with embroidered cloaks, men with the homespun shirts of farmers and the poor. They crowd at the front of the Great Hall, which looks like a fancy-pants church of some sort on the outside. There’s a line at the double doors of people waiting to get in.
I see no women. Not a single one. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle with awareness. Maybe I should turn around and leave. Accept my fate as a maid for the rest of my days. The guild pays better than Lord Honori did, and it’s not the worst living.
But I’ll die inside. I know I will. I can’t do it. Being Sparrow’s friend has taught me that if you want something badly enough, you must pursue it, regardless of what people say. Even if I’m not successful, I can at least try. Failing makes me end up at the same spot that not trying does, so why not try? I have nothing to lose and everything to gain.
As I step forward, I’m more aware of the men eyeing me. I keep my gaze ahead as I approach, but I’m waiting for someone to pinch my arse, or brush up against my tit. I’m waiting for the sniggers. The comments that I don’t belong. I approach the doors, and a trio of men turn around and give me stares that could boil water.
“This isn’t the servants’ entrance,” one states, eyeing me and ignoring my repeater sash.
“I’m applying to the guild, same as everyone else.” I keep my tone sweet, because the last thing I want to do is make a group of men even angrier at me. Pinching men are an annoyance. Angry men are a terror.
They look me up and down, and the one at the front sneers at me, pointing away from the doors. “The back of the line is that way. You want to get in, wait your mucking turn.”
“We’re repeaters. We get in first.”
“Everyone here is a repeater. New students aren’t coming until after lunch.”
Oh. I lift my chin and manage to sweep away with a crumb of dignity. “Of course.”
It’s hard to march past the long line of men, all of whom seem to be smirking at me with delight, pleased to see me retreating. I hate that they’re reveling in my walking away, even if it’s only to the back of the line. It just reinforces my need to prove them wrong. I’m not going to be a maid for the rest of my life.
I’m not. Surely I’m destined for more.
By the time I make it to the back of the line, I’m practically in the middle of the plaza, and the stretch of the queue in front of me feels depressingly long. What if I don’t make it to the front before they cut off? What if all the masters have full groups by the time I get there? I try not to think about those things as I wait for the line to shuffle forward. A few men get in line behind me, and one snickers. I wait for someone to shove me or pinch my arse. I know it’s coming. The shove comes first, and when I get knocked into the man waiting in front of me, he scowls with an utterly black look on his face.
“Sorry,” I say meekly. In this moment, I hate everyone.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I try to ignore the others in line, even as they jostle my heavy pack, which carries everything I own. What am I going to do if I don’t get picked? What if I get to Master Hawk and his group is full? What if he is told not to take any women this time around? It’s not a guarantee that he’ll pick me again. I’m just hopeful. But maybe even that is wishful thinking.
The line shuffles forward and I move in step with the others. As I do, something tugs on my pant leg, right at the knee. I turn to see a welcome, bright green face.
Kipp.
He eyes me in that calm way of his, his shell perched on his back and a weapons belt at his waist. His black repeater sash looks like a ribbon across his tiny shoulder, but I’m thrilled to see him. I could cheerfully hug him in this moment, because I am no longer alone. “Kipp,” I breathe, sagging with relief. “You’re here.”