"Lyra! Up! Now!"
Lyra jolted awake to the familiar, jarring sound of Maggie's fist pounding on her door and her sharp voice. She did not move when she woke. Not for the first five or ten seconds, anyway.
Sometimes, she pretended that if she held still enough, she would vanish between the molecules of this place, that her body would dissolve in the cold and leave nothing behind for Maggie or anyone else.
But the pounding continued. "Lyra!" Maggie's voice, hoarse as always, shaped by too many cigarettes and not enough pleasure, continued. "Up. Up. Now."
Lyra pushed herself up, and the worn springs of the cot groaned in protest. Her limbs felt waterlogged. She swung her legs over the side, and her feet slapped the floor. Her thin blanket slipped off her skin. It was damp with sweat from another night of half-sleep and too many dreams she did not want to remember. Her toes were already blue and numb, but she did not care.
She tipped the basin and doused her face in it. Icy needles made her gasp, but she did it again, on purpose. Waking up felt like punishment, and she deserved it.
She wriggled out of her nightshirt and forced herself into the uniform, which was all gray, as if color was a sin. It pinched at the ribs and bit at her hips. Her skin remembered every beating, every winter, every scar. Her fingers trembled slightly as she tied back her hair, trying to gather the unruly strands into something neat. It was a futile effort, just like most things in her life. She thought about setting her head on fire, but she did not smile.
"LYRA!" Maggie's patience had a half-life.
"I am coming," Lyra said, though no one heard it but the stone wall.
At the door, she paused. Maggie would be waiting on the other side, ready to clock her first mistake. She braced for her.
The door shrieked open just as she reached out to open it. Maggie stood there, arms folded, lips pursed. She was smaller than Lyra, but only in stature; her energy filled whatever space Lyra stood in. She had a face like a kitchen knife, sharp and shiny.
"You are late," she said, and the clock on the wall agreed: 5:36 AM. Breakfast was at 6:30, set up by 7, and the halls polished by 8.
"I overslept," Lyra said.
Maggie snorted. "That is not possible in this pit." Her eyes were unreadable. "Did you hear them last night?" she asked, voice down to a whisper now.
The word "them" could mean anything: the Alphas, the warriors, the other servants, the rats, the ghosts. Lyra shook her head. She never heard anything anymore. She thought maybe she was deaf in the dark.
"Never mind," Maggie said, with a flick of her wrist. "There is a pack meeting today. You need to be invisible." She said it slowly, as if testing whether Lyra understood. "Do you hear me?"
"Yes," Lyra said. The only answer, ever.
Maggie did not move. "Do not make trouble. Keep your eyes down. No talking. Not even to the other girls. Especially not to them." Maggie's words were a series of keys in a lock. If Lyra said the wrong thing, the bolt slid shut on her day.
Lyra nodded, then waited for her to move. She stepped aside. Lyra stepped past. Maggie smelled like old soap and cigarette smoke, a combination so familiar it made Lyra dizzy.
As she walked, Maggie's hand landed hard on her shoulder. "One more thing," she said. "Keep away from the west wing. Understood?"
Lyra did not ask why. She never did. "Understood."
Her grip tightened just for a second, then she let go. She vanished down the hallway, her black skirt swishing.
Lyra moved down the corridor, counting her steps. Her shoes were worn so thin she could feel every tile through them. It was like walking barefoot in a house that did not want her in it. She passed other doors, some closed, some open, but they were all identical and joyless. The girls who occupied them were already up, hurrying over to their chores, but none met her gaze.
The kitchen was already boiling when she got there. The morning staff were already in place, running up and down, sweating and barking orders. She silently walked into the kitchen, hoping she was as invisible as she wanted to be. Thankfully, this morning was one of those mornings when everyone was too busy to notice the stain in the pack in the person of Elias Thorne's sister.
The cook, with his skin like beef jerky, stirred a cauldron big enough to drown a child in. Steam rose, flecked with what Lyra prayed was only herbs. She fetched the trays, lined them with plates, and filled the pitchers with water.
Just as she was about to load the carts, someone called her name. She stopped and turned.
It was one of the omega girls. She was small, sharp, and mean as vinegar. Her uniform fit better than Lyra's, and her hair was slicked back in a perfect knot. She looked at Lyra like she was a fungus growing on the walls. She was an omega who should not have been addressing Lyra by her name in the first place, but Lyra was worse than an omega here.
"Alpha wants tea," she said. Her voice was a high whine. "Now. You are to bring it. Upstairs."
Lyra's blood went cold. Tea duty meant Alpha Kade. Meant the top floor, the balcony with the perfect view of the forest, the room where mistakes were observed and cataloged, and punished.