HIM
Elliot is talking to me. I know this. And yet.
My eyes are on her.
She's magnetic, and I can't fight it as my eyes drift over to her for what must be the tenth time in the last few minutes. Her face is alight with laughter as she talks to Amber and Grace. A part of me glows because she's enjoying herself.
The friendly part.
Should I go over there?
My eyes catch on the small dip that forms in her chin when she smiles widely, when she looks at me. It is completely obvious that I've been staring at her, and my heart stalls. Head spinning, I try to think of a way to play this off. But she beats me to it.
She winks at me.
I feel my mouth drop open. A punch to the gut would've affected me less.
She laughs at my stunned expression, that chin dimple forming again.
I'm going over there.
I only just start to move when a loud voice rings out:
"The pie contest is about to be judged in tent B!"
HER
I can't tell if it's disappointment or relief that flows through me as Aleksi freezes. He seems torn, glancing between me and the people starting to flow toward the tent.
This is one of the events Mrs. Kozlov entered.
I wave him off, starting to move with the other women, but not before I catch Elliot waving his hand in front of Aleksi's face, clearly trying and failing to get his attention.
As we line up, I stand on my toes—trying to see.
I could say that the anxiety gripping me is because I helped make the pie. Well, helped in the loosest sense of the word. After the knife incident, all Mrs. Kozlov would let me do was wash the berries and taste test.
But that isn't why I'm anxious.
Despite us speaking different languages, Mrs. Kozlov has become one of the most steadying presences in the house. Whenever I am feeling down or in my head, she always has a task for me—as if she knows the feeling. It's like she sees every part of me—even the ones I shove down as far as possible—and doesn't flinch. She's as unwavering as a stone wall.
My heart is in my throat as I wait for the results.
HIM
The tent is crowded with people, craning their necks to get a better look at the stage. Laura was swallowed almost immediately by the throng of people, blocking her from my view.
Damn her small stature.
Mamka stands on stage among a few other people, lined up next to her famous strawberry pie.
To anyone else she would look stoic, comically serious despite her squat form and brightly coloured head scarf. I recognize her expression, though—she's nervous.
I find myself growing anxious right along with her. It's been hard for all of us since moving here. This competition—silly though it may be—would be a big victory for her. For us.
Like maybe we could actually belong here.
Her eyes find mine and I give her a smile I know makes her annoyed, trying to distract her.
I follow her gaze across the crowd as it leaves me, and a smile instinctively lights up my face.
She found Laura for me.
She's standing around the same distance from the stage as me, just across the room. Her eyebrows are pressed together, forming a little pucker, and her hand is pressed to her chest. Seriousness leaches from her and my heart softens. She cares too.
Out of anyone here, Laura is Mamka's favourite—she probably prefers her to me if I'm honest—and I know it means a lot to Mamka to have Laura rooting for her so hard.
And—if it's anything to go by—the fact that when Mamka is pronounced the winner, the loudest scream comes from Laura, I'd say she cares for Mamka just as much.
Mamka is absorbed by a group of the staff, shouting congratulations. She plays it off casually, but I can see the bright gleam of victory in her eyes. I call to her across the heads of people:
"Maybe I should put you on my shoulders to celebrate!"
Her familiar scowl makes me laugh even harder.
"Try it and see what happens, boy!" She looks like she wishes she had her signature wooden spoon to waggle at me, but settles for pointing an ominous finger.
It's a clean sweep—Mamka wins every single food challenge she enters. By the end of the judgings, she's practically drowning in blue ribbons. Each win, the energy of the staff got even higher. Amber and Grace are practically floating, and Elliot and the men are becoming louder and louder. Even Adah is loosening up, doing victory laps with the rest of us.
I feel myself getting caught up in the energy.
I'm sure everyone else finds our rowdy crowd insufferable, but none of us seem to care. If anything—the disapproving looks seem to fuel us.
Elliot actually makes good on my threat with the new valet—a quiet sort of man who I like much better than the last. At that point Mamka produced a wooden spoon from God knows where and started smacking them with it.
It's lucky they don't speak Slovakranian because the words she used almost made my ears bleed.
To the whole staff's surprise—and delight—Mr. Stephens and Mrs. Hobbs show up. Though they look like they've been brought here against their will, they congratulate Mamka with surprising genuineness.
The real shock, though, comes when a man scoffs at Adah and Mamka speaking in Slovakranian.
He turns to his friend and says something I don't even catch, but I'm ready to step in. The disdainful look and ignorant comments aren't what surprise me, but rather that Mrs. Hobbs intervenes before I can.
"You'd do well to move along." She uses her scolding voice, the one that's brought tears to maids and grown men alike. The man flinches back, but seems reluctant to surrender, that is, until Mr. Stephens steps in.
"Is there a problem?"
Anyone looking at Mr. Stephens casually would doubt his ability to be intimidating, with his bushy mustache and round face, but they would be quickly proven wrong.
The men slink away and the staff goes wild.
"That was wonderful!" Grace grins to Mrs. Hobbs. She waves the comment away and slicks back her bun, despite not a single hair being out of place.
A warmth grows in my chest. When we first got here, I felt like I had to defend Adah and Mamka from all the ridicule we might face. Tension I've been carrying for months leaves me slowly, knowing now that it isn't just me anymore.
Mr. Stephens doesn't say anything, but he claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. For a man like Mr. Stephens, he might as well have asked me to call him dad for all the meaning this simple gesture conveys.
It's not just Adah and Mamka they're defending.
I dip my head, hiding the emotions I'm sure are plain on my face.
They then witness Elliot being thrown into a water trough and decide to remove themselves from the situation, after scolding him, of course.
The energy only seems to ratchet even higher, until Adah, the closest thing resembling an adult of the group, declares loudly:
"You all need to get your energy out!"
We fall silent, curiously following her arm, gesturing to one of the field games.
Oh, absolutely.