Page 47 of Carousel

I nod.

Gently, he takes my hand, which clams up a little. Guides my fingers back to the corner. “So, you’re going to pull this fold out – like this,” he says, demonstrating by moving our hands together. “Then cross it over, like this.” He lets go of my hand. “I’m right here if you need me.” He adds, as an afterthought, “And – just so you’re aware – we have, maybe five minutes left to do this.” He flashes a grin. “But don’t let that add any pressure.”

“I can make the bed,” I state, as if to convince myself.

“You can make the bed,” he affirms.

I stand up. Go from corner to corner. Copy the exact movements I’d seen him make, with the same positioning of my fingers.

I finish my last corner.

I feel exhausted.

And maybe, a little proud.

I turn around.

He’s nodding. “There it is,” he says.

I pant. “There it is? That’s all I get?”

“There. It. Is,” he replies, with the smallest of smiles.

Walking to the Mess Hall, my pride has worn off, and now I just feel uncomfortable.

I’ve never worn boots like these. They’re long and feel heavy and clunky on my feet, which are sweating. I’ve never worn breeches either, and these are itching me in unmentionable places.

In fact, I’m sweating all over. The sun is already streaming in through the portholes. The ship seems to burn from the inside out. I can’t imagine what it will be like on board by midday. The alternating smells of polished wood, cleaning spirit, and sweat are also starting to suffocate me.

We arrive at Deck 5. The queue for breakfast is snaking right out into the hallway.

“You’ll learn we do two things a lot here. Queuing, and cleaning,” Cosmer tells me, as we join it. “If you’ve finished one of those things – and you don’t have duties, that is – then just assume it’s time to do the other.”

I use the wait time as a chance to survey the other soldiers and pilots. Most of them wear the same style uniform I’ve been issued – looser, buttonless shirts that look more like blouses but have collars, paired with simple light leather vests over the top. Less common are the embroidered high collared button-up shirts and full leather jackets that Cosmer and Riss wear.

Most of the crew are older men and women – although many seem around my age.

Some seem too young. A couple of boys shoving each other further up the queue can’t be older than my brother.

And I understand now what Cosmer meant back in the cabin. These people do look hardened. Some are missing limbs or have scarring on their faces. And it seems to be all or nothing with them.

They grab each other all the time. Wrestle. Howl with laughter. One man tries his luck pushing ahead of someone in the queue and gets himself thrown right out of it. He lands flat on his backside – and then gets spat at.

I notice, too, that while I’m staring at them, a lot of them are staring at me, in my black uniform, which clearly sets me apart, although I’m sure my distinctly Rhavnan looks don’t help.

Do they think I’m a captured soldier?

What would they think if they knew the truth – that I’m a prisoner of war because I committed treason?

No one can know. Or Chapp’s attempt won’t be the last.

I’m pulled away from my thoughts by a younger soldier coming the other way with a tray of food. He’s heading right for me.

“Ara?” he says. His moon-shaped face cracks into a wide, warm smile. “It is you!”

It’s only then that recognition strikes.

“Rike,” I breathe. “Sisters. I didn’t realise it was you.”