Hilith stepped out from her quarters and marched up the corridor. She saw dust where there should be no dust. Rilt was due for a whipping, on the backs of the thighs where it hurt the most and where the welts and bruises couldn’t be seen under the maid’s tunic. And Thool wasn’t fooling Hilith at all – the maid was meeting two or three Houseblades a night, behind the barracks, earning extra coin because she had ambitions of getting away from all this. But Hilith had found where Thool hid her earnings, and when there was enough to make it worthwhile she would steal that cache and say nothing. A little extra come the winter would suit her fine, and if that meant Thool spreading her legs ten times a night with tears in her eyes, well, a whore was what a whore did.

Turning on to the corridor that led to the stairs she saw Spite on the floor ahead of her, crying over a blood-smeared knee. Clumsy whorespawn, too bad it wasn’t her skull. Nasty creature, nasty nasty. ‘Oh dear,’ she crooned, smiling, ‘that’s a nasty scrape, isn’t it?’

Spite looked up, eyes filling with tears all over again.

This was new. Hilith had never before seen any of these wretched daughters of the Lord ever cry. They’d been left to run wild, too privileged for a caning although Hilith longed to do just that – beat the things into being proper and meek. Children should be like frightened rabbits, since only that taught them the ways of the world, and showed them how to live in it.

‘It hurts,’ whined Spite. ‘Mistress Hilith, it might be broken! Can you look?’

‘I’m about to eat – do you think I want filthy blood on my hands? Go find the surgeon, or a healer in the barracks – they’ll love having you in there.’

‘But mistress—’ Spite rose suddenly, blocking Hilith’s path.

Hilith snorted. ‘So much for broken—’ There was a sound behind her and she began turning. Something punched her back, pulled free and punched again. Pain filled Hilith’s chest. Feeling unaccountably weak, she reached out one hand to grip Spite’s shoulder, but the girl, laughing, twisted away.

Hilith fell to the floor. She didn’t understand. She could barely lift her arms and her face was against the polished wood, and there was grit and dust between the boards. Rilt needed a whipping. They all did.

* * *

Envy looked at the small knife in her hand, saw how the blood from the miserable old witch sat on the polished iron blade in beads, like water on oil. Then she glanced down at Hilith who was lying on her stomach, head to one side and the eye that Envy could see staring sightlessly.

‘Stop gawking,’ Spite hissed.

‘We need a bigger knife,’ said Envy. ‘This won’t do for the men.’

‘It did fine for Hidast!’