Sky Song: Overture by Meg Merriet Read Free Book Online Page A

clutched him by the jaw. “You think I don’t know who sank my cruiser? That ship had wedding guests on board, friends of the order. You villains will no longer be tolerated in the skies. Once the insurgency is crushed, our military will focus on eradicating sky piracy from our airspace.
    “Besides,” he added. “I know how you pirates can get on your long and lonely voyages. My son will confirm that Miss Luftberg is still a virgin before I determine whether we kill you swiftly or draw it out over the next few weeks.” He delivered a swift kick into Dirk’s ribs.
    The maidservants pulled me down below deck along with Molly.
    “A bath of milk and roses,” whispered a crone in white lace. She was a wiry old thing with a weak jaw that hung wrinkled about her throat.
    “Where is the dress?” asked a frantic young woman, wringing Molly’s arm.
    “In the blue room. Clear out the bathhouse and take Miss Luftberg there,” the crone dictated.
    “What of the peasant?”
    “Take her to the kitchens and have her scrubbed. Then send her to the red room.” The staff dragged me down into the belly of the ship. Two of the maids had nervous round eyes. All the stress and strain of preparing a wedding at sky had fallen on their shoulders, and it oozed out of them.
    “Out of the way!” one of them snapped at a kitchen boy, shoving him by the head. Another kicked over a scullery wench. Sweltering heat raged in the kitchen. It was noisy with the clink of crockery and the hiss of boil and steam. The staff here dressed in beige stripes. Their clothing bore stains of animal blood and yellowed sweat. Judging by their haggard and starved appearances, I could tell they were a mistreated bunch.
    The maids stripped me of my clothes, starting with my flight cap. As they pulled my grease-ridden shirt away, they gasped when they saw my bruising and the scars on my neck, shoulders and back. As they peeled away the bindings around my chest and removed the rest of my clothing, they saw more scars, and recoiled in disgust.
    “Who would do this to a woman?” one of them whispered. I ignored her. She knew nothing of the life I’d lived, and my scars could speak for themselves. I’d been shot in the shoulder, and the mark there was from the barber who cut out the bullet. I’d earned the lashes on my back mouthing off to a knight. On my ribcage I had three brands from a hot poker. That was a test of toughness I passed to join my first gang in Amaranthia. And maybe they could see it, and maybe they couldn’t, but I also had a faint white mark under my lip from when I was robbed. I had many scars, and I was proud of every last one.
    The women guided me into a basin of water and lathered me in soap that smelled of cloves. With a pitcher, they repeatedly doused me in freezing cold water.
    The crone came down. She pulled at my hair, inspecting it as if I were a horse. I had neglected to cut it over the course of the year. It came down past my chin in the front and the back was rather shaggy. “Hmm. It’s a good color. I’d hate to hide it with a wig. Fiona has a similar color, hasn’t she?”
    “She does,” said one of the maids.
    “Call her down here.”
    They wrapped me in porous linen. A girl who was about Molly’s age came down, having thick blonde locks that fell all the way down to her hips. They had us sit down side by side, and combed my tresses dry. With a pair of shears, they cut the girl’s hair and clamped the locks into hot wax. Then they wove them into braided rows against my scalp. When they were done, I felt a heavy mass on the back of my head. I had long yellow hair and the girl called Fiona was in tears.
    “There there,” said one of the maids. “It will grow back.”
    “Why did she have to be blonde?” the girl wept, touching her bare nape.
    Two maids led me upstairs. They took me into the so-called red room with its curtains and bedspread of rose-patterned brocade. An emerald green dress lay spread out on the