Chapter VI
VI.
When the Fir’Darl mentioned a room with a bed, she doubted its relative comfort.
What would the Fir’Darl know about her desires and the parameters of dressing a room for a human?
The Magic with which she had cohabitated prior to her introduction to the Fir’Darl only provided food and the few comforts she requested, not her lodgings.
The Fir’Darl, known for his evil, had not ever been described as one for interior design.
It only made twisted sense that the room he had offered would be a nightmare, a horror, a monstrosity.
Her fury boiled for not anticipating the deception.
When the candles stopped lighting her path on the first floor along an empty narrow passage, she turned to the door nearest her.
The door did not belong to a servant’s room and loomed over her in too menacing a manner for what she might consider a private bed chamber.
Her unease made her hesitate. The downstairs solar where she had settled herself was large also, but that was expected of a public room.
A private space should not be preceded by so monstrous a door.
Her hand wavered on the handle, but she made herself enter.
Pushing the door inward relieved her as it demonstrated that the hinges were inside.
Oh! She took the room in. This isn’t what I expected at all.
She had been braced for a dungeon chamber, or a melodramatic rendition of a church of the Great Holy attempting to pass itself off as an antechamber and bedroom with voyeuristic wood-carved putti and leering stone-carved grotesques.
She had also been braced for an overdone confection of lace and pastels with festoons of gold accent pieces designed as a monument to performative hyper-femininity.
Although still far too grand, the low fire burning in the anteroom hearth welcomed her to explore further.
The windows on the far side of the bedroom, small but enough to let light in, bore shutters on either side that she could close at night.
The overall color scheme relied on dark green with whitewash accents to relieve the heaviness of the dark wood.
The imposing canopy bed surrounded by heavy curtains occupied most of the space in the bedroom.
A vanity, which she did not intend to use, took up a corner.
The wardrobe loomed, but despite its intimidating grandeur, she intended to be firm with it as the Fir’Darl instructed.
Before clothes, she addressed the defensive orientation of the bed.
If she could have trusted the Fir’Darl to assist, her task would have benefitted from his brawn.
After a variety of different methods, she toppled the bed onto its side.
The massive thud reverberated around the fortress.
Her efforts transformed the bed into a miniature stronghold, the bottom and top serving as battlements if enemies came either from the door or the windows.
The curtains would make decent sheets or cloth for skirts if she could not get her wardrobe to behave.
If the wardrobe behaves. She shook her head. What a thought.
She eyed the wardrobe. Standing before it, she fussed with her blouse, straightened her skirts, and tugged at her hair scarf.
“I don’t know how this works,” she said, “but the Fir’Darl told me that you would provide clothing. If you would be so kind, I need a new skirt, shirt, boots, and, if you are able, several new scarves for my hair.”
She waited a moment. A minute. Three minutes. Without any indication that the Magic acknowledged her or granted her request, she opened the wardrobe. Clothing hung from a bar. She extracted the offerings.
“Oh dear gods.”
The wardrobe delivered what she asked for — a new skirt, shirt, boots, and scarves, but the elaborate offerings came adorned with so many frills and ruffles that she could not determine which piece was the skirt and which piece the shirt.
Perhaps a lady who could afford to sit on her chaise lounge all day and nibble bonbons wore such things.
And look ridiculous. But no self-respecting Rivani would touch them.
Even those who married out of their culture with wealth beyond imaging would never adorn themselves with such silly garments.
Rivani lived active lifestyles little served by such impractical clothing.
She took a deep breath and addressed the wardrobe again.
“Wardrobe,” she said again, trying to be courteous, “I have misjudged. The master told me to be specific and I was not. I apologize. While the clothing you gave me is,” she could not think of a word that was not insulting, “very suitable for a lady of refinement, I am not such a one. I intend to be working in the gardens, exploring the forest, toppling beds when necessary. Therefore, I need something serviceable for hard labor, not luxury. I intend to use the scarves, but if I could have some additional ones that I would not have to worry about soiling, I would be grateful.” She was mollifying a wardrobe. What madness had she stumbled upon?
It took a few more tries for her to get what she needed, but when serviceable clothing appeared, even if they were still much finer than anything she had been envisioning, she took them from the wardrobe to claim them.
“These will do very well.”
She paused. Should she thank the wardrobe?
She would have thanked the Magic earlier, but knowing that the Fir’Darl took responsibility for her shelter and care, she would not express gratitude.
No one wanted to be indebted to the gods, even the benevolent ones.
She wanted to avoid being indebted to the Fir’Darl.
“You’re being nonsensical,” she told herself. “You need new clothes and now you have new clothes. You might have been able to make them or acquire them when you left here, but now you cannot leave, so it falls to him to provide. You owe him nothing save that which you have promised — your time.”
She did not thank the wardrobe.
These past few days spent trying to avoid the Fir’Darl confined her to the solar and though self-imposed, it ill-suited her to be sedentary.
Even with her own luxurious bedroom and spacious antechamber, her restless nature would compel her to seek out occupation.
And maybe here she did not have to work — the Fir’Darl had not asked it of her.
Maybe she could forgo scrubbing and laundry and cooking, but she still needed to keep busy.
She would make her oils and salves and perfumes and store them until next year.
She would dry grasses and weave baskets if she ever found enough attention for it.
Together, they would purchase a new horse and perhaps a new cart if she could not recover her vyardin.
The Fir’Darl only put a provision on the roses, not the rest of the flowers and herbs.
She had tried planting the rose cuttings anyway.
After all that fuss and a year of her life, she better try to at least make the sacrifice worth it.
If they took root, she’d sell the damn things, when she left of course.
The Fir’Darl didn’t seem to want them afterward but that was foolish since you could only do anything useful with flowers after they’d been cut.
More fool him then. She had left the potted cuttings down in the solar, knowing she would have to bring them out for sunlight but still not willing to touch them, feeling sick each time she did.
She’d get over it. She would have to. Roses, unlike most of the flowers she handled, did not take care of themselves.
Maybe the Fir’Darl’s did, but she had yet to see that for herself.
She had potted the other cutting too, but did not have much hope for it.
She could maintain plants if she had to, but she did not think she was up to the task of ensuring their unqualified survival after an intentional beheading.
Still, she would try, if only to give her something more exciting to do than scrub floors, although on the list of things that she found exciting, watching plants grow was just below scrubbing floors.
At least the bedroom and anteroom did not need to be scrubbed. Small mercies.
She set about gathering the fabrics from the bed and creating a pallet in the center of the felled piece of furniture.
Today, if she could believe the Fir’Darl, she would not have to worry about seeing him.
And although there existed many reasons to distrust him, he sounded sincere when he told her he would not burden her with his company. She may as well make the most of it.