LYRA
"Lyra! Up! Now!"
I jolt awake to the familiar, jarring sound of Maggie's fist pounding on my door and her sharp voice. I do not move when I wake. Not for the first five or ten seconds, anyway.
Sometimes I pretend that if I hold still enough, I will vanish between the molecules of this place. That my body will dissolve in the cold and leave nothing behind for Maggie or anyone else.
But the pounding continues. "Lyra!" Maggie's voice, hoarse as always, shaped by too many cigarettes and not enough pleasure, continues. "Up. Up. Now."
I push myself up, and the worn springs of the cot groan in protest. My limbs feel waterlogged. I swing my legs over the side, and my feet slap the floor. My thin blanket slips off my skin. It is damp with sweat from another night of half-sleep and too many dreams I don't want to remember. My toes are already blue and numb, but I don't care.
I've counted every tile in this cell a thousand times, so I keep my eyes down, letting the cracks guide me to the basin.
I tip the basin and douse my face in it. Icy needles make me gasp, but I do it again, on purpose. Waking up feels like punishment, and I deserve it.
My uniform hangs on the hook: shirt, skirt and apron. All gray, as if color is a sin. I wriggle out of my nightshirt and force myself into the uniform, which pinches at the ribs and bites at my hips. My skin remembers every beating, every winter, every scar. My fingers tremble slightly as I tie back my hair, trying to gather the unruly strands into something neat. It's a futile effort, just like most things in my life. I think about setting my head on fire, but I do not smile.
"LYRA!" Maggie's patience has a half-life.
"I'm coming," I say, though no one hears it but the stone wall.
At the door, I pause. Maggie will be waiting on the other side, ready to clock my first mistake. I brace for her.
The door shrieks open just as I reach out to open it. Maggie stands there, arms folded, lips pursed. She is smaller than me, but only in stature; her energy fills whatever space I stand in. She has a face like a kitchen knife, sharp and shiny.
"You're late," she says, and the clock on the wall agrees: 5:36 AM. Breakfast is at 6:30, set up by 7, and the halls polished by 8.
"I overslept," I say.
She snorts. "That's not possible in this pit." Her eyes are unreadable. "Did you hear them last night?" she asks, voice down to a whisper now.
The word "them" could mean anything: the Alphas, the warriors, the other servants, the rats, the ghosts. I shake my head. I never hear anything anymore. I think maybe I'm deaf in the dark.
"Never mind," she says, with a flick of her wrist. "There is a pack meeting today. You need to be invisible." She says it slowly, as if testing whether I understand. "Do you hear me?"
"Yes," I say. The only answer, ever.
She doesn't move. "Don't make trouble. Keep your eyes down. No talking. Not even to the other girls. Especially not to them." Maggie's words are a series of keys in a lock. If I say the wrong thing, the bolt slides shut on my day.
I nod, then wait for her to move. She steps aside. I step past. She smells like old soap and cigarette smoke, a combination so familiar it makes me dizzy.
As I walk, her hand lands hard on my shoulder. "One more thing," she says. "Keep away from the west wing. Understood?"
I don't ask why. I never do. "Understood."
Her grip tightens just for a second, then she lets go. She vanishes down the hallway, her black skirt swishing.
I move down the corridor, counting my steps. My shoes are worn so thin I can feel every tile through them. It's like walking barefoot in a house that doesn't want me in it. I pass other doors, some are closed, some are open, but they are all identical and joyless. The girls who occupy them are already up, hurrying over to their chores, but none meet my gaze.
Just as I'm about to enter the kitchen, someone calls my name. I stop and turn.
It's one of the omega girls. She is small, sharp, and mean as vinegar. Her uniform fits better than mine, and her hair is slicked back in a perfect knot. She looks at me like I am fungus growing on the walls. She is an omega who shouldn't be addressing me by my name in the first place, but I'm worse than an omega here.
"Alpha wants coffee," she says. Her voice is a high whine. "Now. You're to bring it. Upstairs."
My blood goes cold. Coffee duty means Alpha Kade. Means the top floor, the balcony with the perfect view of the forest, the room where mistakes are observed and cataloged and punished.