Chapter 30
Soren had not lingered, leaving me inside his baroque living quarters. It reminds me of a captain's chambers, full of effects personal to him.
As nosy as I feel, I remain in my seat and slowly survey the place while the liquor buzzes in my mind. The act of standing feels like it will warrant someone to bolt in and secure me in rope binds.
Did he really just leave me alone?
My heart races as I skim the area with more purpose, especially as Maryanne’s screams threaten to chase my mental state into delirium. Risking it, I rise to my feet, listening to the dead silence as if at any point, I’ll hear a jiggling of the doorknob. But as I carefully cross the room to the window... nothing happens.
I stare at the glass more than at the scene behind it. "Hello..." I say, looking around. "I'm just standing in here, all alone, with Soren's things..."
Silence.
I straighten up, my face filtering through many expressions as my heart wants to unleash itself and begin crying over what I witnessed, but logic tells me I can’t break; not yet. On an end table that's near me—one that sits underneath a painting of a grassy field with a small wooden home—is a globe. I spin it, keeping my gaze on the door. Perhaps they're waiting for me to upend the place, like before.
All I hear is the wooden sphere slow in its spin.
Scratching my nose, I start to consider that maybe he really did just leave me here. I even move the globe to a different spot on the end table, as if to claim I was here, before rocking back and forth on my feet.
What in the hells do I do now?
I know better than to try for the door. I want Soren’s guards to give a glowing report of my behavior when he returns. A situation like this requires leverage.
But there's another door...
Fidgeting with the balcony door handle once upon it, I manage to open it with a rather aggressive yank. A gust of wind sweeps through, instantly enveloping me in a cool breeze as I step outside. I squint when the sun’s rays invade my vision. The scent of the ocean fills my lungs, flooding me with memories of a familiar hug—I instantly recall Dad taking me down to the piers of Skull's Row during a storm, to show me how magic kept their ships protected.
It's a city all in itself.
In my mind, I can hear the men shouting as they work the rigs below, listening to the deep groans of their thick ropes, and feeling the droplets of salt water on my head and shoulders as I stare at the barnacles on the underbellies. There will be a few dozen ships sitting in Skull’s Bay, waiting to port. A salty, crusty type of humanity haunts those wooden terraces. A pirate once told me, ‘ I don’t feel right on shore, not even on your fucking stone. Soil is useless —'
“Jane?”
It’s a woman’s voice, one I don’t recognize, and coming from inside the room. I look back, but the glass of the door only reflects the clouds, the breeze having nearly shut it. Opening it back up, I peer in to see a few young women moving about, one even wheeling in a large casket of... water? Yes, that’s what’s labeled on the side. Anya’s pejorative glare latches to me by the open door, overseeing it all.
Oh, lovely. It all makes sense now. I was only momentarily left alone.
A short woman with tanned skin and straight black hair looks right at me, her high cheekbones creating a unique elegance that her longer neck enhances. “There you are,” she says, delicately flipping her shiny hair over her shoulder. “We are having a bath drawn for you. The casket has warm water but will need heating to make it, well... he said to make it steamy ,” she states, those hooded, dark eyes imploring that I should correct her if she’s wrong.
I stumble over my words as I focus on the woman in front of me. “Well... I do like steamy baths—wait, is it for me?”
Relief washes over the woman, who is a little too clean and well-kept to not be of some service to the Spiraling Stone. “Oh, good. All right, yes. We are also just to take care of you, overall," she says with a dainty flick of her wrist, speaking more casually. "Hair trim, nails, all of it."
I raise my brows, slowly looking back at Anya, who seems to have absorbed all of Soren's callous nature in the way she looks at me like I just confessed to burning down her family home. Refraining a snarky comment nearly hurts until I remind myself that I don't know her. Or Soren.
And I don’t have the energy to deal with either of them.
Looking back at the woman, she swiftly snaps her gaze back to connect with mine, as if trying to hide that she wasn't looking me over just now. I ask, "What's your name?"
"Lora," she warmly says, gesturing to a room that's between the main bedroom and balcony door. "Come into the bathing room. Please, let us help you relax."
I feel like I need to ask Lora to clarify—just to be sure this is real—as this is much different than when I got a bath because of negotiations. As I hear the door to Soren's quarters shut, I nearly reach for a knife that's been missing for the last—however many days—only to see that it's just Anya, dramatically shutting it now that everyone is inside. My heart races with wasted adrenaline, sighing to get the energy out. Anya pulls a chair over to block my only exit as she sits there. Lora looks like she wants to interject, to reclaim my attention, but she only hesitantly watches.
Anya turns the chair to sit backward on it, nodding toward me. "I know your sunder won't work a second time—not so close in usage... and if you try to get within arm's reach of me, I'll knock you out so hard you won’t wake up for an entire day."
"Oh, well," I say, feeling incredibly sardonic. "Where's the fun in that? I enjoyed being stabbed so much.” I place a hand over my stomach.
Lora watches with concern. No doubt, she has seen over a hundred fights break out over smaller disputes. I've even witnessed two men order the same drink at the same time, the altercation resulting in someone losing a hand.
Anya snorts, revealing a rather fetching smile, even with the giant scar on her cheek. "Go enjoy your bath, little pet."
My blood burns with a fight, my arms swinging at my side. Again, I’m too tired for this. Don't waste the bath. "No problem. Sounds rather nice anyway. Enjoy sitting in that chair."
I briskly walk toward where Lora has been trying to guide me, wanting to stab more pillows rather than take a bath.
But when I see a large ceramic tub in a bathing room... it tames me. Glorious, floor-to-ceiling windows brighten up the dim room. The other two that join Lora quickly heat buckets of water over the fire. I peer into the casket and notice it's already quite warm. I recognize they're all wearing simple black dresses with black corsets, and matching silver chain necklaces. It makes sense, now, to see them. All the men here call them different names—bedside wenches, carers, tenders, or more commonly, the noirs. It depends on who grew up hearing what.
No matter the title, these are the men and women that take care of the elite. One doesn't have to be a Zenith to summon them, either. Warlords and rich mercenaries hire noirs all the same.
I've learned the rest of the world calls them 'maids'. As with anything else, ours are a little rougher around the edges, even if they look prim.
Taking a step near, I see the tub has a plugged hole in the bottom. They are already pouring steamy water in, tapping droplets of scented oils with each pour.
I'm a little disappointed to realize that if Anya is here, then it means Soren won't appear in the doorway to watch me bathe. The bastard easily glides into my mind like a fog, clouding the rest of the world and my better judgment. He's safe while existing within my imagination; he can't talk or potentially make things worse—
Lora cuts through my rumination. "Master Soren says you are fond of wine," she says, pulling out a bottle from a bag they brought.
I blink multiple times, as if it will make the scene change; but she's still holding a dark bottle. "What the hells is going on?"
I also don't miss how she calls him master. Noirs and whores in Skull's Row call all the Zenith that, for measures I'm sure are related to the ego.
Lora tries to control a smile. "Master Soren implores that you get as much relaxation as possible. He came to Kendra's not long ago, and we acted right away, per his instructions.”
I don’t know who Kendra is, but as I watch them pour more water in, I also can’t resist it. “All right, I'll bite, I guess.”
Lora looks incredibly pleased, like she has been warned I might say no.
As she turns around to pour some wine, a hesitation steels me as I finally understand why I feel off, in more ways than the obvious—it’s like home. Mother would have baths like this drawn for us once a month. Noirs and all. I'm not sure how my father managed it without people asking questions, but he did.
It's why I hated bathing in the damn river so much back in Coalfell. I always thought that if the killers of my home took such pride in luxurious hygiene, surely others would.
But farmers bathe in the river like a common mule. Maybe it’s just all they know.
Is Soren aware of how much this touches me? How much this makes me feel like I’m home? How much this also makes me feel like I have failed to stay away? It's one thing to be forced back here, but another to drink rare wine and sit in a steaming, oily bath.
Something about wine being offered, while doing this, makes me miss my mother in ways that haven’t ached in years. Oh, how I'd kill to have her sit with me right now, to tell her of everything that's happened, to share this drink with her. She'd no doubt laugh and tell me I am home, whether I like it or not; remind me how she chose to live here because she was born here, too.
The attempt to prune my familial roots over the last decade was clearly done in futility. My thriving roots dig deep into the soil here, threatening that they'll lash out if I try to remove them again.
I yearn for my father to be alive so he can tell me that the shit with the Council will be all right. For him to explain what truly happened and why he chose to disappear, now that I'm older and able to understand...
I wipe my eyes and pretend they were just itchy before stripping in front of the women, knowing they have seen countless naked bodies, and get into the bath. I relax right away into the warm, salty water that has a decadent floral scent, something earthy and sweet.
"Who picked this smell?" I ask, melting into the heat. I already know the answer but want to hear it.
"Master Soren," Lora replies, pouring a glass of wine.
The other noirs don't look at me as they continue to fill the tub, and I know it's out of respect for Soren. Lora hands me the wine in a glass. I stare at it, and another noir begins to comb my hair. My eyes roll with pleasure at the sensation of a comb against my skull.
But somewhere in the luxury, guilt pries its way back in as I recall Maryanne not just being burned alive, but stripped and humiliated beforehand. Drinking the decadent wine, my mind completely numbs itself in confusion.
Everything spirals so quickly.
Even with the noirs watching, I allow myself to weep for Maryanne, who will never grow old to see who her children could become.
Just as my mother couldn’t.
That pain of losing a parent to such brutality, even if those children will never know why, turns my sobs into an uncontrolled release of suppressed agony, the women cleaning me as if this is normal.