Chapter Twelve
The Lovers’ Knot
‘Traditionally used on wedding garments and the altar cloths displayed at such ceremonies. The Lovers’ Knot is not on the list of forbidden stitches, which may only be used by those sworn to the Temple, but it is of a higher order than everyday embroidery.
Use with solemnity and humility when you must.’
—An Exhaustive Compendium of Stitches
The next night, in readiness for the dinner, Milady sent all the maids in the house—every last one—to tackle the Hair.
They had obviously heard the story of the lady’s maid who had tried earlier that day and ended up in tears, surrounded by a dozen broken brushes and combs.
The Hair was in a mood—as was I. I had not left my room all that day.
When one footman ended his shift, another took up his place.
Even my meals had been brought to my chambers—as if I were a child to be confined to my room for speaking out of turn.
I hadn’t even been able to speak to Baldbeak, as Milady had sent a maidservant to sit with me.
She had been yawning and doing her needlework all day in the armchair by the hearth, making sure I didn’t open the window.
“Please,” I had said eventually, in despair. “Could you lend me some sewing things? I’ll go mad if I have nothing to do.”
I had done no stitchery since leaving Quell, and my fingers were itching for it. My head felt like a tangle of thread, and I knew if I could just get some fabric in front of me, my needle would draw it all out smooth and silken, and I would be able to think.
The maid put down her things for a moment and looked at me. There was genuine sympathy in her eyes, I thought, but she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Miss.”
Because of all this, I was looking forward to getting out—a little—even if I was terrified at the prospect of a dinner with society.
I had no idea what Milady was planning. All there was to do was study the book she had given me and practice reciting from it convincingly, and so I had reluctantly turned my attention to that.
I must have read it a hundred times by the time the maids entered my room warily, eyeing the Hair as if it were a dangerous animal.
One held her brush out in front of her already, daggerlike.
“You’re having a bath tonight,” insisted the oldest and strongest of the women. She had rolled up her sleeves in readiness, and her bare forearms looked like legs of lamb.
I stepped back. “I had one yesterday.”
“Milady insists.”
And so a great copper tub was filled, and I was stripped, shivering, down to my smallclothes, before four pairs of arms lowered me into the hot water.
I couldn’t help squeaking a little as my skin reddened.
I looked like a lobster cooking in a pot, I thought; even more so after they had scrubbed me with soap and soft-bristled brushes, leaving me smarting and raw.
Lastly, they washed the Hair. It swallowed up all the soap they could rub into it, with nary a lather, just to be spiteful.
“It’s bewitched,” snarled the leg-of-lamb woman, tugging so hard at the soapy strands that I wondered if my scalp would finally peel off altogether.
“Such a sweet girl to have such wicked hair,” said the second.
If they only knew, I thought.
“It’s pretty, though,” said the third, letting it curl on her palm and turn fiery in the candlelight.
“Pretty, my arse. Woven from the devil’s bumfluff, it is,” said the leg-of-lamb woman, as if I weren’t right in front of her. I held my tongue.
Finally, I was cleaned to their satisfaction and allowed to step from the tub into the welcome softness of a fresh towel. Outside the window, Baldbeak pecked at the glass—a hollow clock-clock.
“Nasty things,” said one of the maids, opening the casement herself and sending him fluttering. “Shoo!”
“Leave him alone!” I cried.
“You have a tender heart, Miss, but those creatures are no better’n rats.”
“That’s my friend,” I said.
As they dried me with the towel, there was a knock at the door.
It did not wait for an answer. The maids stood to attention as the door opened, and Milady entered with her light, firm tread.
She crossed the floor to where I stood, barefoot, shivering, and naked under the towel.
I noticed that she no longer looked beautiful to me, now.
“All clean, I see,” she said. “I shall expect you in the dining room in two hours’ time. That should be long enough to get this”—she stepped forward to curl one strand of the Hair around her finger—“under control.”
The curl went limp in her palm. Milady turned her smooth, bland smile on me, full force. “Tonight is very special. It will be quite a treat for you, I think.”
When she shut the door behind her, so gently that the sound was almost inaudible, the maids sprang to life with renewed vigor. One produced a packet of hairpins that looked more like harpoons. I was in for a painful two hours.
By the ringing of the first dinner bell, I was primped and nigh ready.
By some miracle, the maids had managed to tame the Hair into a series of fiery braids looped one upon the other, giving the illusion of an up-pinned style while only using a handful of actual pins, and, by some further miracle, it had not yet escaped.
In the smoky glass of the mirror, I looked like a different person—someone much more confident than I felt.
Someone in charge of her own destiny. I laughed to myself.
I was in charge of nothing; owned nothing.
The gown I wore, the jewels, even the light brushing of cosmetics across my freckles all belonged to Milady.
All were her discards, her rejects. Royal blue didn’t suit Milady, apparently, and so I wore the scorned velvet dress now, my skin milky against the dark bodice that the maids were lacing.
“All done!” said one of the maids, and they stood back to examine their handiwork. They beamed, flushed and proud. I straightened, giving them a better view. It wasn’t their fault, after all. None of this was.
“Just in time, too,” said one.
The second bell.
“I’ll escort you, Miss,” said one of the maids.
I followed her to the dining room. I had guessed that the party was a large one, from the commotion I had heard in the courtyard outside that morning and the flurry of footsteps down the corridors all afternoon.
Now, as we neared the dining room and started to hear the sound of talk, I slowed my feet and let my hand trail along the paneled walls, eventually coming to a halt right outside the dining room door.
“Here you are, Miss,” said the maid. She hovered for a moment, as if wanting to say more, then withdrew. She contented herself with a quick smile as she turned away.
I hesitated. There were so many voices! I didn’t know whether I had it in me to smile and curtsey and mumble polite words to a group as large as this. Still. Too late now. I took as deep a breath as the dress would allow and stepped in.
Milady sat in state at the head of the table, languid in her chair, one hand resting along the length of its arm. A gloved hand.
Plague take it. Gloves. I had forgotten the gloves.
Milady’s slow gaze traveled along my bare arms, raking up gooseflesh in its path. “Gentlemen.” Milady straightened in her chair. “My niece, Miss Persinette Edevane.”
The heat of their stares, and the surprise as they took in my name and its implications. They no doubt knew the story of my mother—many probably remembered her—and I instantly went from just another young noblewoman to a curiosity.
Throughout the introductions, I kept my face impassive, my eyes lowered, and found my way to the seat left empty for me.
When I finally reached it, I spread my napkin in my lap—taking far too much care to smooth out all the wrinkles and align it perfectly, because it gave me an excuse to put off facing the ranked army of silverware and the sea of faces.
When I could no longer stare downward, I looked up and took a deep breath, steeling myself to be social.
Milady’s eyes were on me, hard and bright.
Everyone at table was talking about politics, but in an easy, mannered way, as though the world beyond their estates were simply a chessboard with pieces to be moved and discarded at will.
I focused on my plate, trying to keep my face unreadable as I listened.
It dawned on me slowly that Milady and I were the only women present, besides the servants. Why were all the guests men?
“… the king’s condition has worsened,” said a man to Milady’s right, his voice smooth but heavy with disdain.
He was a large man, his rings catching the light as he gestured with his goblet.
“The court physicians are scrambling to keep the rumors contained, but everyone knows he won’t last much longer. ”
Milady tilted her head slightly, her ruby earrings swaying with the motion. She offered him a serene smile as she swirled her wine. “And what do you think will happen once he’s gone, Ban Hallow?”
Ban Hallow snorted. “The same thing that always happens when a weak king leaves no heir. Chaos. Every lord with a speck of ambition will come crawling out of the woodwork to claim the throne. And the Temple …” He paused, his lip curling.
“They already think the One-Eyed God favors them above the crown.”
Another guest, a wiry man with sharp eyes, gave a short laugh.
“It wouldn’t be the first time a faith has tried to rule.
But Priests make poor kings. They’d outlaw every vice they can’t control, tax the life out of us to fill their coffers, and likely burn half the kingdom to cleanse it of imagined sins.
No, if the Temple gains power, it’ll be the end of reason—and profit. ”
I risked a glance at Milady, whose expression was a mask of amused detachment, her sharp eyes taking in every subtle shift in tone and gesture.
“And what of Foley?” asked a quiet voice at the far end of the table.
I stiffened and tried not to show it.