Page 9 of Cinder
There was half a chance he’d say no, and half a chance he’d cram the bucket over Cin’s head and laugh, but the castle’s towers must have been glinting over the horizon because this time, impossibly, Manfred just shrugged again and took it from Cin. While he was out at the well, Cin sat to portion out the beans he’d need for their lunches—not that they should have needed lunches with the ball that night, but Floy had insisted they wouldn’t have time to eat a single bite while they were wooingthe prince, and Louise claimed that if Cin was going to make food for Floy, then it wouldn’t be much more work to just make the whole pot, now would it?
By the time Cin had it in the bowl he planned to use for soaking, there was barely any left in their stores. Which should have been as good a reason as any not to make the meal for everyone, if only good reasons were considered in the Reinholzes’ household.
Manfred came sweeping in through the back kitchen door with a sloshing bucket of water. He took one too many steps, and Cin could see the direction the swagger in his step was taking him—see it but do nothing to stop it, as Manfred slammed the bucket into the table, knocking the bowl of beans to the ground. They scattered across the grimy floor with the softcling-clingof Cin’s hopes dashing.
He wanted to grab that bucket from Manfred—wanted to slam it down over his head, break the wood to pieces, throw them both into the flames—he wanted to—
“My God!” Louise shouted, one hand over her mouth.
“I was just trying to be helpful, Mother,” Manfred said, somehow managing not to sound like he was snarling for once. “See, I brought in Cinder’s water.”
“Afteryoumuddied the floor,” Cin snapped.
Louise made a sound in the back of her throat. “It’s a kitchen, Cinder, the floor is never clean.” She flicked her fingers anxiously. “Oh—just fix it, both of you. You know we can’t waste food, not even with the ball tonight. And be more careful next time!Bothof you.” As she turned, she hissed at Cin under her breath, “You know your brother doesn’t understand how to be gentle; next time take the bucket from him, for heaven’s sake.”
Cindidknow, and all too well. He could have prevented this. He could have just collected the water himself. Like he usually did. And then there wouldn’t be lunch all over the floor.
Louise was gone for barely a moment when Manfred laughed under his breath, backing out into the garden again with a smirk. “Whore,” he mouthed as he left.
Cin just stood there. He wanted to cry—big, rage-fueled tears—and he crossed his arms over his bound chest, wishing it were flatter, if for no other reason than that way he could hug more of himself, wrap his arms all the way around his body and smother the anger seething beneath his skin. As the sounds of Louise and Manfred moved further from the kitchen and the space quieted down to the soft, tight heaving of Cin’s breath, one by one his trio of pigeons appeared on the stoop of the back door.
Perdition cooed.
With one last sniffle that ached deep in his sides, Cin looked at the beans spread across the floor. “If only you could...”
He didn’t even know what he was asking for. His pigeons had always been there for him, showing a level of intellect and devotion he was fairly sure not a single member of his own family possessed, but they couldn’t possibly understand what had happened, what this meant to Cin.
Perdition fluttered into the kitchen, diving straight for the nearest fallen bean.
“Oh, no, that’s...” But how could he take the food from her? He didn’t have the heart.
As he lowered himself to the ground though, Perdition hopped her way up to him, bean still gently held within her beak. She bobbed her head... offering it... to him?
Ragimund and Lacey followed her lead, pecking up their own beans. Instead of eating them, they waited for Cin to right the bowl before depositing their gifts neatly into it. He held his breath as a flock of two dozen pigeons, doves, and more descended through the kitchen door. Each new bird collected the little morsels of food and delivered them just the same as Cin’strio had. Every bean was as clean and fresh as the moment Cin had measured them.
It was like magic.
Cin could almost believe itwasmagic, for his pigeons were always something nearly as special and peculiar. But in order for magic to happen, someone—usually with the proper talent—had to ask for it in such a way that the universe would accept, through word or ritual or a mixture of the two. And the only one who’d asked for anything was Cin, and that had been a wish more than a question.
Whatever the case, the beans were sorted nearly as soon as Cin had spoken, the flock retreating out of the room. He didn’t have time to dwell on it further.
Bracing himself against the pain with each act, Cin poured part of Manfred’s water onto the beans and the rest he used to mop the floor quickly before retrieving the dry laundry hanging in the garden from the day before. While he worked, Floy came to lean against the back door.
“Why, Cinder-child, you seem nearly finished with things already.” They used Louise’s nickname for Cin, despite being barely three months Cin’s elder, picking absentmindedly at their nails while they spoke. “I need a selection of flying bugs and bird feathers for my current scientific exploration, but I’m clean for the ball, and Mother would hate for me to ruin that. Could you retrieve them for me? I plan to tell theprinceof my findings tonight. I’m sure he’s interested in such populations with the famine so unwavering.”
Cin could feel his blood boiling, but all he said in response was, “It’s been quite cold some nights. Most of the bugs are gone.”
“Not all of them,” Floy replied, and left.
Cin wanted to cry again, but somehow, this time, he also wanted to laugh, as his pigeons crowded down onto the laundrylines, cooing and bobbing, the other birds twittering around in the grass.
“I mean, if you insist, I’d love the help?” he asked.
He wasn’t sure anything would happen, but in a flash, the birds all flew away, spreading out in every direction. Cin continued taking down the dried laundry, folding the sheets and prepping the lines to hang what he’d washed that day, and by the time he finished, the flock had brought back a dozen different specimens of flying insects, each unique and undamaged, and plucked their own feathers to add to the mix. Perfect timing, Cin realized as he passed the clock in the hall. They were set to leave on the following hour, and he had only the soaking, changing, carriage preparation, and the lunch cooking left.
The clean laundry at his hip, he took the insects and feathers to Floy, who hummed under their breath, and shooed Cin away. As he left though, Cin had an odd tug in his gut. He looked back to find his sibling staring at a specific set of pigeon feathers: one gray, one white, one mottled brown. Just as quickly, though, Floy set them down. Cin tried to breathe out. It meant nothing. And he had work to do.
Cin had had barely a moment’s peace in the laundry room, the stack of clean linens sitting on the table while he added the lye to the dirtiest of Manfred’s things to soak for the night, when Emma flaunted in.
