Chapter Text
🔥
There are 50 tables in the lobby of The Glass Unicorn. Cinder has cleaned off 37 of them. They are supposed to be clean before check in at 4 and the restaurant’s dinner opening at 5. Cinder is not to engage guests who approach the front desk— they are too dirty from all of their daily work to be a greeter, especially in front. Madame ensured Cinder knew that with an open fist.
It is 3:25, and Jacques Schnee wants checked in now.
“Would you believe the service here? It's unforgivable! We could have stayed at the manor and been to the conference on time all the same. I don’t know WHY we waste our time and money on places like these when the only person in sight is— filthy!”
Cinder looks up from the table they’re brushing off at the man. His suit is clean cut, his mustache is ugly, his hairline is receding, and his daughter is standing beside him, eyes scanning the walls of the interior, clearly tuning out every word he says. She’s clean, Cinder thinks. Her blue eyes betray the interior colors of the Glass Unicorn, even from a distance, and her pure white hair is tucked into a tight bun. Cinder reaches up to feel their own half-ponytail, surely a mess by this point in their day.
Yes, by this point in the day, Madame’s daughters should be around. But they won’t get in trouble for the anger of Atlas’s biggest tyrant crybaby. Cinder pays for everyone’s mistakes. Whether or not they acknowledge the angry politician up front, this is a lose-lose for Cinder. Either talk to him and try to calm him down but get yelled at for trying to greet him, or say nothing and get berated for being distracted from precise cleaning strokes by the man who talks just to hear his own voice. They decide their day will suck less if they don’t get yelled at by more people than they’re used to.
They return to the 38th table.
“Father, check-in isn’t for thirty-three more minutes. We can stand to wait—” comes the mild voice of his teenage daughter across the room, somehow the voice of reason.
“Be quiet! ” comes a whisper-bark, as though the man worries someone might hear his careless snapping, “I don’t care what the official check-in time is, Winter.”
Looking over, a shudder rolls down Cinder’s spine. Winter ducks her head at the command, and those crystal blue eyes stare holes into the floor just before her. It’s a familiar motion; the heart beating in Cinder’s chest tightens just the same. As though they were the one under the scrutiny of the man, their bottom jaw chatters no matter how hard they grit their teeth together. Their eyes, then, stare holes into the 39th table, and the 40th, and the 41st.
The time reaches 3:46 and Cinder’s “sister” bumps down the stairs, all prim and proper and apologetic. “Mr. Schnee, I am so sorry you weren’t attended to sooner! It seems like our staff is especially lazy today,” she spits, eyeing Cinder. Cinder shoots a nasty golden glare through the golden stair railing up at her, a heat seeking missile embedded in their stare. Winter eyes them in the back; Jacques has forgotten them.
He forgets most of the people that he doesn’t think are clean, his daughter thinks. Winter thinks that they look tired and wonders if they’re the only one working in a five story hotel.
They get checked in, and Cinder watches them, now only 3 tables left in their task, pausing in order to do so. He has more power in his pinkie finger than Cinder has ever known, while both of their hands work to death each day. Winter is quiet all the way up the the second floor in spite of her father’s chattering.
A silent but sharp strike finds the back of their head. “Ah—!” They yelp, startled by Madame’s presence.
“Slacking, are we?” She mutters, voice low but still distinct. Her eyes trail up to where Cinder’s were caught, on the duo being led up to their room. “Ahh, of course. The Schnees are hard to look away from for anyone.” Even as she speaks, Cinder cleans, determined not to face another smack. Madame has different plans. She pulls the bottom of Cinder’s hair, not tied up, into her fist, and forces their eyes back upwards. “Since you wanted to look at them so badly,” she growls, and they swallow against an already dry throat. “She’s pretty, isn’t she? Well kept, well mannered, polite… Obedient.” She releases their hair and they scramble back to their duster in hand to finish the table, at the very least. In the distance, Winter’s eyes linger on the floor, hands kept behind her back. Cinder wonders if it’s out of respect or restraint. “You could learn a lot from her.”
“I’m not your daughter,” Cinder bites back under their breath, “and she’s not a slave—”
“Quiet! ” Madame interrupts, swiftly administering another smack to the back of Cinder’s head. This one is harder. “Have you forgotten all I’ve given you? Shelter? A place to sleep? A purpose , Cinder. What were you before me?”
Cinder is quiet, like she asked.
Madame looks up to assure that nobody peers down on them from the higher floors.
The slap is audible this time. “ What were you, Cinder?! ”
“—Nothing! ” They cry out, fists balled up on the table. Their survival instinct kicks in. “Without you, I am nothing.”
“Good girl. Know your place.”
Her heels click off into the distance. Cinder sighs in relief, but their stomach is no less tense.
They thought the pain would hardly mean anything to them anymore now that they’re used to it, but they still flinch. It still stings. Their skin still fades red under her palm.
They finish this table. Two more. It’s 3:53, and they need to finish this so they aren’t smacked again. Cinder rises to walk to the last two, and their knees threaten to buckle from the incessant pressure put on them all day every day.
They look up again, to the room of Atlas’s royal family. To their surprise, there are saturated blue eyes looking back at them. From the second floor, it’s difficult to make out Winter’s face, but they can tell she isn’t expecting them to look back at her by the way she pulls away from the railing at first.
Cinder wishes they could look away, too.
❄️️
Jacques has been on a call with the conference head for the last forty minutes. He’s too entrenched with the financials of it all, something Winter hasn’t cared much for since she started to train with her new blade. He’s always complaining that she doesn’t pay enough attention to the importance of her future role as the Schnee family’s head, but pushes her away when there’s an important business call. It’s all for show, and Winter is smart enough to know it. If her father could, he’d live forever in charge of the Schnee Dust Company.
But it’s hard for that to matter when the image of the woman in the dining room of the lobby smacking the child’s head continues to replay over and over in her mind. It’s a loop she’s seen before, as though she were watching herself from outside of her own body. Her heart pounds against her ribcage without mercy; she has to get away.
She is not yet a huntress in training, but the urge to investigate has already wormed its way into her brain. She departs from where she was asked to stand quietly outside of the room while Jacques finishes his call, her stride brisk but uniform. Winter offers a superficial smile to the two obvious sisters giggling down the hall as she passes them. One of them puts out a hand, as though intending to speak to Winter, eager for a fraction of a chance to talk to the first princess of Atlas. Winter ignores her.
Once she gets to the bottom end of the steps, she glances up again to ensure her father isn’t frenzied and hounding her down while she’s still in sight. In doing so, she promptly misses a step, tumbles downward, and catches herself on the guard rail, only for half of her body still trapped in its momentum to slam into precisely who she was searching for. They fall backwards, arm raised like a shield, and sputter out an instinctual, frightened “ I’m sorry, ma’am —”
It’s haunting. This time, she swears it stops her heart all together. Herself, her siblings, her mother, each of them have guarded themselves like this before. Everything they do in reaction burns into her mind; she does not want to frighten others like her father. Standing above them, Winter dusts herself off, gathering herself, before huffing and extending a gloved hand to the mystery employee. They are about as tall as her, but their figure is emaciated and dirty, covered in bruise and the sweat of the day. Surely they’re her age, but she can’t pinpoint it when their eyes are so young and their facial features are grimy and half-sunken in. Those same eyes stare at her widely as though they were a cornered animal offered shelter from the storm, as though nobody had ever held a hand out to them in their life.
They don’t take her hand. They scramble to their feet on their own, as though their life depends on it. “It’s alright,” Winter assures as she watches their frantic movements, unsettled. “Are you injured?”
They look at her. Winter thinks that there is no part of them that doesn’t appear injured, physically or otherwise. The silence continues, uncomfortable, tense, before finally a response bubbles up. “N-no ma’am.” They begin to walk away from the dining area, clearly disturbed by the incident, in the direction of a door that appears to lead to another section of the building.
Now that they’re here and leaving, she realizes she doesn’t actually have a plan for what to say, what exactly she’s looking for in seeking them out. What does she want? In the heat of the moment, she isn’t certain if it’s that she wanted to be away from her father’s voice for five minutes, or if it’s truly altruistic. Selfishly, she realizes it’s the former, but she’s invested now. She opts for something nonchalant. “Wait,” Winter interjects, and the other teenager turns around with that same scared look in their eyes. “...Do you know what the kitchen intends on serving for dinner?” Really, Winter? You couldn’t have just asked their name?
They blink at her, mortified. “Um, follow me.” They begin walking to a back table with a white tablecloth on it. Atop it is a pile of menus. They pick one up and hold it out to her, the night’s special on the front. They stare at it for what seems like a few seconds too long, in plain view of Winter, before she raises a brow. Somewhere in there, she hears the word “Mistral”, but that’s all. They continue to squint at the menu for a considerable time more until they give up. “I don’t know,” they say defeated.
“You’ve been looking at it for the last two minutes,” Winter rolls her eyes, thinking this a cruel prank. “Can you not read?” Their brows lower, expression crinkling into a crude mixture of angry and shameful all at once. Winter’s gut twists in the same way. She understands now that they’re entirely serious, and a slow, powerful wave of fresh horror washes over her frame. This was never going to be something she’d solve in five minutes, she supposes. It’s apparent to her now that this— they will require patience.
“...This.” They point at the cursive lettering, which Winter is certain does not help the employee’s literacy case. It reads, ‘ Seafood Mistrali Bolognese. ’
“...I see. Thank you for showing me, …” she trails off, “I don’t believe I caught your name.”
Their expression twists into shock, as though they’ve never been asked, picking at their dirt-crusted fingernails in foreign territory. “What?”
Winter’s brow quirks up. “Your name?”
Their brow lowers. “Why would you…”
“If I see you again in the duration of my stay, I should like to know what to call you.”
“Cinder.”
“Cinder… Cinder what?”
“Just Cinder.”
“Cinder, then,” she mutters, “I’m—”
“Winter Schnee!” comes a man’s roar from the second floor.
Both of them jerk their heads.
Whatever outraged rambling he says next, throwing himself down the steps towards them, she tunes out entirely. Cinder’s presence isn’t one he cares enough about to pretend like he loves his children in front of, apparently. She’s not sure if it’s registering in Cinder’s head, either, but it certainly reminds them of a fate they don’t wish to meet all the same.As he approaches, she takes a moment to compose herself— in order to endure whatever is to come, she steels herself so that he won’t receive the satisfaction of riling her up from the outburst. It’s something she struggles with routinely, but it’s far easier when it’s just her. Were it Weiss or Whitley, she’d be yelling back louder to direct his fury elsewhere. But it isn’t, and she can stomach this. She’s used to it, after all.
They scurry off and fling the door from earlier open. She cannot blame them; Winter even feels relief. Her expression fades into something longing, the urge to follow.
Winter wishes she could run away, too.