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— This is fucking stupid, you realize that? — Agata hissed, clutching a bundle of wet leaves and cursing her long dark hair as it clung to her face. — I’ve never seen anything more pointless! — she added, furiously tossing her hair over her shoulder, her gaze darting across the others. She used to be Ashton, a cynical guy who trusted in science, but now...
— You’ve mentioned that already, — Martha replied calmly, her head bent over a wreath of herbs. Her voice was soft but carried a steely confidence she'd gained over the last two months. She used to be Mark, an MMA fighter who never lost his cool. Now, she was someone else entirely — a fiery redhead with wide hips and a stubborn look. This shitshow they'd all volunteered for, lured by the promise of a hefty paycheck, had radically altered their lives months ago when they’d landed here in the past... in the bodies of some peasant women.
— I don’t care, I’ll keep saying it until this madness ends, — Agata snapped, glancing around nervously. Her gaze landed on Elizabeth, who stood quietly off to the side, smiling as if she was actually enjoying this. Agata clenched her fists and growled at her — What are you so calm about?! — She glared at Elizabeth, who kept weaving her wreath with that unbothered smile that annoyed her more than anything else. Elizabeth had once been Nate, a sharp-witted IT guy, but now her face was calm, like she knew something the rest didn’t.
— Can’t you just enjoy the process? — Elizabeth said with a smile, then added, — Look, it’s nice here, quiet, warm water... It’s clearly better than hauling buckets to wash clothes all day or scrubbing out reeking stables. — Elizabeth sighed, continuing with a smirk: — And it’s definitely better than... — she wrinkled her nose — seeing your husband.
They all flinched as if in sync.
— Oh, don’t remind me, — Lucia muttered, dropping her head low so that her dark hair fell over her face. She used to be Lucas, managing a restaurant chain in New York, but now her life was reduced to cooking over a fire and waiting on a husband who always stank. — I’m already at my limit. These nights... it’s impossible. These stinking men... and, fuck, they think you owe them something. — She shuddered at the memory.
— Well, at least your husband doesn’t snore, — Martha said bitterly with a wry smile. — Mine makes sounds every night that make me think he’s dying, but no — every morning he’s alive again, stinking and demanding I make him porridge.