Chapter Eleven #4
There was no answer. I pushed the door open softly and ventured in. This room was very much like my own, but richer. I knew that I should leave, but curiosity got the better of me. I crossed to the wide white dressing table, spread with scarves and bottles, and opened the top drawer.
Gloves, in every possible color and material: soft and rough, gleaming and dull.
I worried my hands into the mess of fabric.
Some of the gloves were leather or kidskin and felt like live fingers brushing my own; some were mere cloth; and some were lace, which raised small red hives on my skin.
So many of them, like faceless, tentacled deep-sea creatures.
My Hair floated tentatively towards them, as if it, too, wanted to touch.
I found them oddly fascinating. Each pair seemed to hold the ghosts of Milady’s hands.
I pulled out a pair—nothing special; cream, soft leather, with a small bow at each wrist—and snaked them on, one finger at a time, feeling the second pair of hands enclosing mine. I spread my fingers and looked at myself in the mirror. My hands did not seem to belong to me anymore.
As I watched, they lifted themselves to my Hair, smoothed it back. They encircled my neck as if to strangle me. I put one finger into my mouth, to taste it—I did not know why. The glove had a musty, rubbery mouthfeel. The quiet suddenly seemed oppressive and the gloves oddly sinister.
I pulled the finger, now slightly damp and darkened at the tip, away from my mouth and tried to remove the gloves, but they seemed fused to my skin.
Fighting rising panic, I struggled with them, but they would not budge.
They were a slick second skin, elegant and malicious, making my hands look like they didn’t belong to me.
“What are you doing?”
I turned. Milady was there in the doorway, a tall column of cream and gold.
No use lying. “I was looking through your drawers.”
“I can see that.”
Silence. I bit my lip, but said nothing, feeling dread out of all proportion to my crime. Milady moved across the room like an elegant ghost.
“I hope you didn’t disarrange anything.” She was smiling, but there was something dangerous about it. I bit my lip and held out my hands, showing her the gloves.
“Ah.” She walked over and peeled them off for me, finger by finger. For her, they relinquished their hold. Beneath, my hands were red and swollen. “These are very … specialized gloves, Netta. Only to be worn on very particular occasions. I hope you have learned your lesson.”
I nodded. My hands stung and tingled. She paused at the fingertip that I had mouthed, perhaps feeling it still damp.
“Sorry,” I said, sounding—I knew—decidedly un-sorry.
“Here.” Milady pulled out a pair—pink lace, with ribbons at the wrist. “These ones. These are much more suitable.”
I was loath to touch them.
“Keep them,” she said. “You will need them.”
“What?”
“Don’t say what, say pardon.”
“Pardon, Milady?”
“Keep them. They’re yours.”
I took them reluctantly, wondering if they would slither themselves on and fuse to my skin again, but they lay limp in my palm. Milady had turned back to her dressing table. I stood, uncertain.
“Go on.”
I turned to leave.
“And Netta?”
“Yes?”
Milady’s face had seemed to lengthen, grow pointed. Her eyes raked up and down my body, somehow managing to convey disapproval without changing her expression one whit.
“Why were you wandering the house alone?”
“I just … wanted to get to know it. The place where my mother lived,” I added quickly.
“Hmm. Wash yourself”—she raked me with her gaze, dusty hem to disheveled Hair—“and I will send for you shortly.”
I was in disgrace; I knew it. I shouldn’t have cared, but something about Milady made me feel like a small child again.
Perhaps her resemblance to Mother. Her maidservant escorted me back to my room; in case I got any ideas about wandering off again, I supposed.
I noticed that Milady’s servants didn’t walk, but rather scurried—heads down.
Closer to the walls than they needed to be.
The air in my room was warm and stifling. I went to open the window, but the maidservant inserted herself between me and the glass.
“I just want some fresh air,” I said.
“I’m sorry, Miss. Milady said your windows were to stay closed.”
Through the wavering glass, I could see Baldbeak’s silhouette in a tree opposite the window. I hoped he had found something to eat.
“Just for a moment,” I said. “I really do just want some air.”
“I’m sorry, Miss,” she said, standing her ground. Another pair of maids entered carrying a large tub, and a third with a ewer. I gave up and submitted myself to be washed.
When I had changed, I presented myself to Milady’s chamber—accompanied by the maidservant, of course.
Outwardly, I was calm. Inwardly, I was fuming.
The Hair frizzed out irritably, as if expressing the frustration I could not.
I was beginning to suspect that climbing into Milady’s carriage had been an enormous mistake—but I needed her to help me find Mother and her book.
I told myself that I was not imprisoned—if she did not keep her promise to aid me, I could somehow get away and head to Spire.
Milady opened the door, smiling. I forced my mouth into an answering smile.
Behind her, I could see that a lectern had been drawn from edge of the room into the center.
It looked like it might be made of porcelain, painted with pink and gold roses.
On top of the lectern was a large spellbook, open to a central page.
“What is this for?” I asked, stopping dead.
She looked me over again in silence, her face unreadable.
“Well,” she said. “Let’s put this morning’s unpleasantness behind us, shall we? Did you bring the gloves I gave you?”
Reluctantly, I nodded.
“It is a myth, you know, that one should wear gloves when handling valuable books.”
“I know. Mother told me.”
“All the same—mine are a little different, and I prefer you wear them when you read for me.”