CHAPTER 1
Sweltering heat hit me like the sudden leap of a bonfire when I traded the protection of the mule-drawn cart’s tarp for burning sand. I clutched my satchel, squinting against the dying sun. Heat waves created illusions of life out on the sand. Sometimes they came as ripples on a pool of water. Others, a snake looking to escape under a rock. Or an Afar caravan carting slabs of salt cut from the desert’s floor to be sold in the market.
They were all just the desert’s cruel trick. There was nothing out here. Nothing but me, the merchant I’d caught a ride with in town, and that towering mass of structured stone in the distance that was to be my new home.
My frizzy curls stuck to my temples and the back of my neck as I fished a sweaty bill from my pocket, but the merchant held up his hand against it like I was offering him a spider. “No charge.”
“To show my appreciation,” I insisted.
I should’ve just kept my mouth shut. The cart had been a godsend after six others had vehemently refused. A simple sheet of wood raised between two sturdy wheels on the back end and a sweating mule hitched to the front. Plenty of room for me to curl up and rest, even if I had to share the space with the merchant and his clay pots of spices. And it had a tarp to lie under for shade. A tarp. Even so, it was my last bit of money, at least until this new job paid. Besides, if I was going to pay him, the least he could do was drop me closer to the door.
But, God bless him, the merchant insisted more frantically, his raised hand turning into an aggressive shooing motion. “God have mercy on your soul,” he said, and smacked the mule into a sudden run, kicking sand into the air as the cart circled back the way we came to take the long way through the desert.
The cloud of dust left behind stuck to every sweaty inch of me. I licked the salt from my lips and crunched on it.
Sand didn’t bother me. My insides were so coated with it, at this point I was immune. But I wasn’t so sure my employer would appreciate my appearance.
Hopefully he’d be forgiving. I needed this job. Badly. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten a proper meal. I mostly relied on the sand to coat my stomach, to trick my mind into thinking I was full. This job supplied a room and food. And a future patronage, which would ensure work for the rest of my life.
But one step at a time.
I waited until I was sure the merchant wasn’t coming back, then held the collar of my dress open to pull my amulet out from where it was hiding, holding it up to examine it for damage. The thin, pure silver, carved by the heat of my welding pen into the shape of a Coptic cross, was wrapped along the edges with various colors of thread. Each welded line and curve, each row of color, built up protection against Manifestations of the Evil Eye. Any imperfection could throw off the design and ruin the effectiveness of the shield. It was the first real amulet I’d ever made—the only one I’d ever made, since there’s no way Jember would’ve ever let me waste something as precious as silver for multiple tries.
Not to mention that this much silver could feed someone for a month, longer if they were frugal.
I hid my amulet under my dress again, adjusting the collar so the metal chain wouldn’t show.
It was a survival habit Jember had taught me to live by since the age of five: Protect your amulet better than it protects you.
I spent part of the three-mile walk to Thorne Manor dusting myself off with one of my clean dresses, and the rest of it gaping at the castle itself. It looked like something from a fairy tale—brown stone ground down unevenly and undefined by dust storms, parapets where ancient emperors might have stood, carved-out windows with glass added to them. There were castles like that in grassier lands, I knew, but here? Who would want to be emperor of the hottest desert on the planet?
Some foreign travelers called it “exotic.” Others called it “hell.” The second was accurate, heat-wise. But to look at it? Heaven. Salt and iron crusted the land in yellow and rust, making the desert look alive with magic. But even a wonder like that wasn’t enough to get travelers to pass this way, not anymore.
The Evil Eye had made sure of that.
It’s said the Evil Eye was the first Manifestation of sin—namely jealousy and greed. In a constant state of longing, it latches on to any human who desires the same thing it does. Thriving crops, a random string of good luck, even receiving too many compliments could draw unwanted attention.
But material possessions, especially too much money, seemed to be the worst offender. Most of the clients Jember and I saw were people who insisted on having too many nice things in their house. Or, in the case of the man I was on my way to see, more money than any one human should be allowed to possess.
It didn’t matter that the curse was confined to the walls of the castle, that the desert was perfectly safe if you knew how to traverse it. When it came to the Evil Eye, it was better to be safe rather than sorry.
Evening was settling, the sun peeking over the horizon before it said good night, when I finally made it to the castle. I lifted my fist to knock, then went for the sand-crusted rope hanging beside the door instead. Inside, an ominous bell echoed my arrival.
I waited, maybe thirty seconds, probably less—I don’t know, my aching feet were impatient to get off the ground and into a proper bed. Only the sound of footsteps stopped me from pulling it again. The door opened, splashing me with a gust of cold air like a pail of icy water. I shivered and clutched at the amulet around my neck, nearly second-guessing its power to protect me from what was inside.
A white woman with greying hair and a sagging frown scrutinized me from behind small wire-framed glasses. She wore a wool sweater and a long, heavy skirt—an odd outfit for inside, let alone in the desert. Her pale face and hands stuck out like chipped spots on a dark painted wall against her grey clothes and the stone foyer behind her.
She raised her eyebrows, her gaze lingering too long on my face, but not looking me in the eye. My scar. I rubbed my cheek like I was soothing a sudden itch, wishing I could take the long mark on my skin with it. I always forgot it was there until I met someone new, and they stared at it like I’d grown a third eye.
“Andromeda, I take it?”
With just those few words I could tell she wasn’t from around here. Amharic didn’t leave her mouth comfortably—it stuck in all the wrong places.
That is, unless she’d intended to spit the words at me like a curse.
I bowed slightly, trying not to wobble on my exhausted feet. “Yes.”
“The exorcist?”
Exorcist. I forced myself not to roll my eyes at the word. It was vague, limited. We debtera led the worship services with hymns and chants, as well as performed all the duties of the priests, without benefiting from being ordained or esteemed. We were healers. Artisans. Trained to attune ourselves to the spirit world deeper than anyone else would dare to. But, I supposed, for the purpose of my employer … “That’s correct. The exorcist.”
The woman bit her lip. “You look awful young.”
“I look it,” I agreed, but left it there.
“This is not a job for a child.”
“Would you like to see my identification?”
I held the woman’s skeptical gaze firmly, secretly praying she wouldn’t ask for it. Nineteen was an adult, according to law. Old enough to live on the streets, to starve daily. But not, in my experience, old enough to be taken seriously by the elder generation. The less she could judge me on, the better.
“Well … you’re a skinny little thing,” she said, as if the fact was both important and relevant. She opened the door wider and I stepped inside the frigid castle, forcing myself not to rub my shivering arms. “Then again, the grander-looking debtera didn’t do us much good, did they?”
So, she did know my true title, though she pronounced it so strangely I barely recognized the word—deb-TAIR-a, with the accent on the second syllable instead of the first.
The woman shut us inside and, instinctively, I glanced around for an alternative exit. “I’m Peggy, Mr. Rochester’s caretaker. Mr. Rochester will insist you call me that, even though I’m your elder and it should be improper. No, keep your shoes on, child. You never know what you’ll step on around here.”
I stood on one foot to hook the heel of my sandal back on, a violent chill-like pain running through my hand as I leaned against the wall for support. The stone felt like ice. The presence of evil spirits tended to cool down a room, but I’d never felt it to this extent.
Peggy led me through the dim, candlelit hall, the filmy windows only offering a bit more visual aid with the faded sun. I rubbed my arms, then gripped the silver amulet around my neck. It tended to gently pulse when there was an excess of Manifestations nearby—physical proof of the Evil Eye—but it’d never done it as consistently as today. I could practically feel the movement of Manifestations on the high, shadowed ceiling, like a mass of roosting bats, shifting away from the pulse.
“We only have a few hours to get you accustomed to things before curfew,” Peggy said, leading me up the stairs. I slowed to match her pace. “The Waking begins at ten o’clock sharp, and everyone must be locked in their room by then. No exceptions. If you aren’t, only God can help you.”
I supposed the idea of a cursed house was scary to someone who didn’t know how to cleanse it, but I’d never met a Manifestation that could withstand even one of my weaker amulets. “Late at night is when I can do my best work. It’s easier to gauge the Evil Eye when I can see it in action.”
Peggy dipped her chin, peering over her glasses. “You said you’ve done this before?”
“Many times.” To rooms. Not an entire house, let alone a castle. But God knows when—or if—I’d ever get another job offer, not without a debtera license. A little lying was warranted.
“Well, you can take that up with Mr. Rochester. Until then, don’t turn yourself into some great lady and start making your own rules.” She opened a door a few feet from the top of the stairs. “This will be your room. You really should be downstairs with the servants, but Mr. Rochester wanted you down the hall from him. It’s small, but you don’t seem to have much, anyway.”
A woman working for a man whose house was cursed by the Evil Eye didn’t seem like someone who should be judging a poor girl and her lack of possessions … but it wasn’t worth fighting over. I had a room to sleep in. I had food to eat. I didn’t have Jember ordering me to steal drugs for him.
I took a deep breath, shoving the memory back.
Count your blessings, Andi. You’re safe.
“Thank you,” I said, and stepped into the room.
“Dinner will be served in an hour,” she said, looking over my simple, sandy dress. “I trust you have something better to change into?”
I hid my cringe by pretending to adjust my bag. Stupid, frantic merchant.
She let out a short sound, like a scoff, and left me alone without another word.
CHAPTER 2
The barrel of water in the corner of the room must have been recently filled, because I broke the thin layer of ice easily with the bottom of a bucket and filled it, hanging it over the fire to heat. Then I found a rag in the dresser by the bed and scrubbed myself until the water went from scalding to chilled. I hadn’t been clean in so long, I nearly forgot there was skin underneath all the grit. I used some of the tiny bit of butter I’d bartered for last week to moisturize my loose curls and dark, ruddy skin, then braided my hair in two neat French braids down my shoulders. I didn’t have anything better to change into, but I did have a dress that hadn’t been in the sand and sweat. It would have to do.
There was a large full-length mirror, and I hadn’t looked at myself in so long I felt a bit distressed at seeing my reflection. There was no improving my face—my lips seemed too big for my tiny chin, which seemed too round for my thin nose, which would never settle evenly between my not-quite-round-not-quite-high cheekbones. And worst of all, the slightly raised scar on my face, an ugly nick in my top lip that ran all the way up my cheek. Not the purposeful show of beauty from scarification, but the aftermath of a brutal mistake on display.
I looked like a homely, misshapen doll. But at least I didn’t look homeless. The last thing I wanted was Mr. Rochester to know he’d pulled me directly from the street.
If there was a clock in the room, I didn’t bother looking for it—years of being charged by the hour for my work, even if most of it had just been tagging along with Jember, had helped me develop an internal one that worked just as well. So, at ten minutes to the hour I headed downstairs to find the dining room.
There were fireplaces blazing in every room, but otherwise there was no light or warmth. I’d never seen a house decorated so colorfully lack so much … color. There were rugs and pillows, baskets and tapestries, woven in traditional green, yellow, and red. But they were all lifeless, dulled by the sun and age. All that beautiful handmade craftsmanship was paired with walls and furniture that seemed like they were from another world. Too much gold and filigree and embellishments, excessively crowded patterns that left little room for the design to breathe. Not to mention, everything seemed a bit, well, off. A tapestry wasn’t on the wall straight, a couple rugs weren’t centered, furniture sat in strange places … whomever had decorated didn’t care at all about the order and aesthetic of the rooms.
The main hall was one large square, and when I finished wandering and made it to the other side of the stairs Peggy and three others were standing at the bottom, whispering. One of the people—an older man with a mustache—saw me coming and nudged Peggy, prompting the other three to look at me. For a split second I bristled, feeling for the knife under my dress, but logic quickly calmed me down. They were standing with Peggy, which meant they probably worked here, same as me.
I could tell instantly that Peggy was the only one who didn’t do any work out of doors, because her face was the color of concrete while the faces of the other three were rosy from the sun. Never in my life had I seen so many white people in one place. We hadn’t been colonized like other countries, so my experience was limited to the occasional missionary or activist, who were all nice enough.
But I supposed it made sense. No local would dare step foot in a house so saturated by the Evil Eye. Hiring foreigners who were unfamiliar with the curse guaranteed employees would stay, as long as they were paid well.
“This is Andromeda,” Peggy said. “The debtera.”
“You finally picked the right one.” The middle-aged man with grey on the temples of his black hair slapped Peggy on the back—maybe too hard, because she scowled and shooed at him.
“You say that every single time, Tom.” The woman with bright orange hair and bizarrely blue eyes frowned at me. “She can’t be older than sixteen.”
“Yes, but she’s seen war,” he said, pointing to my scar. I fought the urge to cover it with my hand.
I’d thought Peggy just preferred her clothing to match her grim demeanor, but the three others wore that same dark grey to match the bleak walls. To be fair, it was probably less a fashion choice and more a matter of dyeing all the wool in one barrel. Even so, it was strange how well they matched the house. Like ghosts dressed in shadows.
“This is Tom,” Peggy said. “He takes care of maintenance around the house. Emma here, the two of us share the task of cooking and mending. And Edward”—the old man nodded at me with a small smile, his eyes glistening kindness—“he keeps the horses. We all clean around here.” She gave me a pointed look. “That includes you.”
I was getting paid to cleanse the house of the Evil Eye, not of dirt, but I would argue that point with Mr. Rochester. “Four people taking care of such an enormous house?”
“We’re all that’s left,” Emma said.
A somber silence fell over the group. Of course, it was obvious without even asking—the rest of the staff had left. Emma leaned against Tom, and he cradled her head comfortingly. When Edward cleared his throat it sounded harsh against the silence.
“Why doesn’t anyone here wear an amulet?” I asked.
“Superstitious nonsense,” Peggy said, waving away my words as if they stank. “Our God protects us.”
Copyright © 2023 by Lauren Blackwood
