Chapter 5 #2
“Those are some nasty wounds.” She took my chin in her hand, also extensively covered with hair, and twisted my face about so that she could get a full view.
“And you have skin breakdown.” She released my chin and picked up the beak mask from my lap.
She examined it and ran her finger over the unfinished edges of the leather.
She tossed it at Drook. “See what you can do about that. I need to address his wounds.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” I offered, uncomfortable with the concern.
“You,” she redirected her attention to me. “I don’t want to hear any protest. You need to wash your hair and face. I’ll show you to the basin.”
Klessa started off towards another set of rooms.
I rose to follow and hurried to catch up with her.
“Thank you,” I said, grateful to have anyone concerned about me at all. “But truly, it is better if the tsarina — if everyone, really — sees something awful when they see me. If anyone should look at me with anything other than disdain —”
“Drook might think he’s excessively clever by waiting for the right moment, but your wounds need to be tended before they get infected. Now hush up and wash. Use mine.” She pointed to a basin and ewer set out on the taller of the two marble-topped washstands.
I hushed and followed her instruction, removing my gloves.
I leaned over the basin and began pouring the cool water over my head.
I scrubbed my scalp and shook out the curls, having to untangle and unmat many of them.
I washed my face too. At the end of the exercise, I patted my face and hair down to free them from excess water and stood, feeling almost like a new person. Or almost like my old self anew.
I caught my reflection in the mirror hanging above the washstand and stopped toweling off.
Any illusion of feeling like my old self shattered.
I barely recognized the gaunt, hollow-eyed man gazing back at me.
A ring of livid flesh left by the beak encircled his nose and mouth, three primary areas deeply crusted with blood and lymph.
Wirey hairs on his cheeks and jawline, my cheeks and jawline, stuck out at odd angles where I had missed them in shaving.
Several healing cuts from the same activity blazed red against the sickly skin.
I looked less like a man of two-and-forty and more like one of double my years.
When I returned to the sitting room, both Klessa and Drook pulled their attention away from their occupations. Drook grinned, but Klessa just pointed to the ottoman in front of her. I obeyed and sat facing her. She opened a jar and slathered salve on the wounds.
“Why do you care?” I glanced at Drook but returned my attention to Klessa, the question primarily for her.
“Because she insults us all when she insults any of us. And this,” she slapped another dollop on one of the offensive wounds, “is an insult.”
“We cannot change what she decreed,” Drook said. “But none of us are alone, and you don’t have to be either.”
I was already alone. Nobility did not bond. It competed and conspired and maneuvered. Even family. Even Alexei. It was only our shared parentage that made us look out for each other’s interests. There was a reason I ran away to Varnasia.
“You’re most welcome among us, Mikhail,” Klessa said as she finished and wiped her hands on a handkerchief beside her.
“Thank you. This entire situation has sent me reeling.”
“Of course it has!” Klessa tossed the handkerchief aside with disgust as if it had offended her.
“I was eight years old when I was given to the Great Tsar. Maybe it was easier for me as a child, but I still lost everything I had ever known. Fortunately, the tsar was generous to me and maintained the lifestyle to which I had become accustomed. But I can scarce imagine having to go through that all over again at my age, and with a significant depletion of dignity in the process.”
Depletion of dignity summed it up accurately, but a little too nicely for the harsh reality of the concept. I wore spit stains and crusted blood and old kvass, and I could do nothing about it except prepare to accumulate more.
“Maybe I am not the nonsensical blithering idiot you would both expect of someone in my position, but I fear that if I join the rest of you for evening socialization, I will make everything awkward. I am too lost and too broken.”
“Piffle!” Drook spat. “Like anything that breaks, it hurts. And then it heals while you manage the pain. It’s up to you whether it heals in a healthy way or in a way that makes it weaker. Spending time with us would help you heal. Properly.”
Klessa poked my shoulder as if testing my sturdiness. “He’ll hold up,” she told Drook. “If he were going to wither, he would have done it by now.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Drook agreed.
“Still, you are a prince,” Klessa said disdainfully as she looked me over, “and princes rarely make decent company for anyone of actual intellect. But I would be delighted if the tsarina’s witty, sarcastic chicken wished to attend our evenings instead.”
The prospect of meeting the rest of the jesters overwhelmed me in the face of Klessa and Drook’s concern. And if Klessa hadn’t made me painfully self-aware of giving into tears, I might have indulged in a moment of such relief.
I took a deep breath and let it out. I rubbed at my knuckles. I massaged a temple. They were crazy for not wanting the prince. And I was so glad they didn’t.
I raised my brows and shrugged, a child again learning how to navigate the world and interact with others. Others, this time, who wanted me because I wasn’t a prince anymore.
“Maybe tomorrow?”