8 Dove
DOVE
I woke to the smell of freshly baked scones and chocolate. Blinking the sleep out of my eyes, I spotted Petra bustling around the room, shaking the curtains open wide and pouring something that smelled absolutely delicious into a teacup. Bright sunlight filled the room. I squinted.
“Is that what I think it is?” I croaked, propping up on an elbow. She started and whirled around, shooting one of her gentle smiles my way.
“Dove! Good morning! Yes, I made a special treat for you. Got up extra early to slowbrew it.” Her smile faded somewhat. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t here last night.”
I tried to be cross. Avoiding her pleading gaze, I sat up in bed, plumping the pillows behind my back.
“Are you alright?” I asked archly.
“Yes, I’m fine. Just got my nights off confused again, and by the time I’d realized, you must have already gone to sleep. The door was sealed.”
I could almost feel her worry and unhappiness, and it tugged at my heartstrings. She stood beside my bed, wringing her apron in her hands, the way she always did when she was upset. I took pity on her and held my hand out for the cup.
“Well, that’s alright. No harm done, I suppose,” I said. “But that’s the second time this month, Petra.”
She pressed the fine porcelain cup into my hands and nodded quickly. “I know, and I’m so, so sorry, my lady.”
I shifted on my mattress. “Oh, none of that. I thought we were over this nonsense. I’m not your lady. Just Dove.” Suddenly, I realized something. “How did you get in here this morning?”
“Maerryl let me in! Convenient, isn’t it, having someone trustworthy guarding your door? Now we can do breakfast in bed properly, rather than you having to get up to let me in.”
I grunted but didn’t press the issue. Too early in the day for that topic. Bringing the cup to my nose, I inhaled gently and took a sip. Gorgeous.
Petra had made my favorite—a rich, slowbrewed coffee that was mixed with careful proportions of bitter dark chocolate and wildflower honey, along with other things.
It took ages to make, so we almost never had it, but goddess…
it was my favorite. When she was alive, my grandmam used to make it as a treat when I was little.
Usually when I was feeling down: the day after my birthday; when a butterfly I’d caught died; after I skinned a knee.
It always made me feel heaps better. Or maybe it was the hugs she gave me along with it.
She called the drink “loveydovey,” and every time she said that, I felt the warmest buzz in my chest, like a dozen lightning bugs sparking up together. I hadn’t felt that since she died.
I’d also never quite been able to replicate the drink, though when I was older, Choia showed me exactly how Grandmam made it. Despite our best efforts, it always tasted as if there was a little something missing.
But Petra got it pretty damn close.
“Thanks for this. It’s delicious,” I said as she brought my breakfast tray over. I swung out of bed, placing my cup on the tray and pulling the whole thing from her hands. “Let’s go eat by the fire. You can tell me all about your night, and we’ll tackle these waffles together.”
Reassured, Petra returned back to her normal, bubbly self.
We wandered into the front room and settled on the sofa as she chattered away, telling me about some lovely elf she met at the pub down the way last night.
How hot she was, and her sweet bashful partner, a tall, lavender dish of a man.
Apparently, they’d been traveling all over Kurriel—all over the world—and were heading toward Iwwo next.
As Petra talked on and on, detailing every piece of stunningly crafted jewelry the woman had been wearing, my thoughts drifted. Iwwo—that was hundreds of miles away. All the way in the far north of the realm.
Sometimes it hit me suddenly, like a blinding strike to the head, that people just…
did stuff. Other people woke up and decided—yes, I’m going to get on my horse and ride endless miles to reach some far away place.
Or—I’m going to ask that person on a date today.
Or—I’m going to roam around in the city and see what adventures I find.
Or, or even—I’m going to show strangers my art and try to get placed in a gallery.
That kind of idea felt so monumentally absurd. All of them did, to be honest. How do people just decide to do a thing… and then do it? Every time I tried to imagine myself like that, it was like putting on a shirt and then realizing it was made of invisible cloth.
Insubstantial. Ridiculous. Exposed.
My whole life, there was always something I was meant to be doing: studying, dance lessons, horseback riding, and so on.
Or someplace I was due to be, such as at a ball, around the shops, in the parlor.
At the dining table with my family. Until a year ago, I hardly had to make any decisions at all.
Everything was just sort of… laid out in front of me.
I was thirty-one now, and sometimes it felt like I hadn’t even really lived yet. Mother’s words from last night echoed in my ears. “You are the one who insists on locking yourself away,” she’d said. And “If you want to ‘live,’ go live. No one is stopping you.”
At the time, I’d thought she was just trying to cut me down a notch. And she was, of course. But there was also some truth in her words. It was easier to see it in the sunny light of morning, with a sugar-dusted waffle in my belly and a cup of loveydovey warming my palms.
Today could be different.
“I want to do something this morning,” I said, breaking into Petra’s ramble about the various villagers she’d chatted and danced with last night.
Her forehead wrinkled. “Okay. Well, you have your harp lesson at ten o’clock. And then lunch with your mother at noon. And then—”
“No. No, I mean I’m going… out.” I cleared my throat, trying to say it with more confidence. “I’m going out. On an errand.”
“An—an errand? I can fetch whatever you need in the village, Dove. I don’t mind.”
My mind scrambled to think of something. What did I feel like doing? What do people go out and do?
“Oh no, don’t trouble yourself,” I said loftily, heaping a spoonful of crushed cinnaberries onto my second waffle. “I have some, um, business. Out. But I should be back by lunchtime.”
Petra did look troubled—quite worried indeed. I knew I was being concerningly vague. But I was never very good at lying or improvising on the fly as a child, and it looks like that skill hasn’t naturally developed with age, unfortunately.
After a few long moments of evading Petra’s darting, anxious glances while I pretended to serenely sip my loveydovey, her face cleared.
“Ooo, you have a new romance, don’t you?!”
Irritation flashed—why is it so improbable that I might have something of import to do outside of this goddess-damned estate?
—but I tried to shove that down. Her face was so eagerly excited, sure that she’d hit on the real reason for me abandoning my normal schedule.
And it occurred to me that this wasn’t the worst excuse in the world.
At least it made me sound less pathetic.
I slipped on a coy smile and said, “Hmm… perhaps.”
“Oh, how wonderful! And you’re seeing them today? Who is it? Tell me everything.”
“No, no time for that, I’m going to be late. Come, help me pick out what to wear.”
Draining the last of my drink, I hurried to my wardrobe and began pulling out my few riding outfits.
After much discussion, we settled on the midnight-blue riding habit.
It was chic, we agreed, with its smartly cut jacket and delicate silver embroidery, while still being functional and warm enough for a ride out in the morning’s chill.
With wide trouser legs that were so flowy that they felt comfortably like skirts to me, I cut quite a nice figure, if I said so myself.
Doing a twirl before my full-length gilt mirror, I couldn’t help the happy flush that rose to my cheeks.
Even if I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing, these clothes were right. And they made me feel marvelous.
Though to Petra, it probably looked like I was mooning over some lover, blushing at myself with thoughts of all the romantic hijinks we’d get up to today.
She led me over to the vanity, and I settled in my seat as we got started on my curls.
Her mastery with hair was one of the main reasons I’d ultimately hired her as my maid all those months ago.
Though her own hair was quite straight and blond, Petra’s previous mistress was an elderly woman with, she said, quite similar natural curls to mine.
Before that, she’d worked part-time in a combination hairdresser and haberdashery for years, working on all types of locks.
She knew her stuff, and though it took a little while, I trusted her completely with my own hair now.
As she untied my silk headwrap and looped it around my shoulders to protect the outfit, Petra chattered away about this and that.
I let the flow of her words fall over me, soothed by the familiarity of our routine.
She always floofed up my squashed curls first, bringing them back to life a bit after the night’s sleep.
We’d just done a wash two evenings ago, so they were looking lovely.
Then she made sure to do a quick little head massage, her strong fingers working the tension away from my temples.
It was always my favorite part—so relaxing.
Next, she went in with a conditioning cream, warming it between her hands and lightly defining each coily curl that had become snarled or frizzed, twisting each one carefully around her deft fingers.
We decided on a pulled-back look for the day, so that it wouldn’t be in my face or get too tangled as I rode.
Gathering most of my curls, she held them with one hand at the nape of my neck and grabbed the large silver hair ornament that I passed her.
This was the trickiest part, getting most of the curls into its oval-shaped grip and not knotting any strands up in the clasp when locking it closed.
But Petra was a pro at this, and she swiftly got the clasp closed with not even a twinge of pain in my scalp, all while chattering on about the dinner Choia was planning for tonight and rumors of an affair between our married woodsman and Hanc the sous chef.
The next three clasps were even easier, and she spaced out each silver ornament with a few inches of hair in between.
I loved this style—simpler and easier on my curls than a braid, but it still kept them out of my way and looked satisfyingly pretty with the delicate but strong silver running down its length to the middle of my back.
After insisting she adjust the few loose curls we left framing my face, Petra did a gentle all-over spray—some potion she got in the Talon markets, its magical mist perfect for giving my hair that extra shine I adored—she finally declared me flawless and whipped the silk scarf off my shoulders with a flourish.
Admiring the soft sheen of my expertly managed hair, I thanked her.
Beaming, she squeezed my shoulders and wished me luck, then gathered up the breakfast things. I unsealed the front door, and she bounced out, all smiles.
When she was gone, I returned to the full-length mirror. Studying the dips and curves of my reflection, I swished the thick fabric around again then locked eyes with myself.
“You are going out. And you are not coming home until you do something.”
Hopefully, that something would happen before lunchtime. How long did adventures take, anyway?