Chapter Eleven #5
I resisted the urge to snap back. I pulled out the pair of pink gloves she had given me and wiggled them on, finger by finger, making a face at the itchy fabric.
There was that same sensation of tightness and restriction, but they did not seem to stick as the others had.
Perhaps that had been some kind of ward, set for anyone foolish enough to go rummaging through her drawers.
“It is time for us to see exactly what your mother taught you, I think,” said Milady. “You may look at the book.”
Despite my trepidation at what might be coming next, I was eager to look at the book—to weigh it, smell it, feel the pages between my fingers, examine the calligraphy and the intricacies of the illuminations. Call it professional curiosity. I had spent so many years working on them, after all.
“It’s beautiful,” I said almost involuntarily.
“Isn’t it?” Milady had turned and now faced me, her hands clasped before her. “Place your hands on it, please. Palms flat. One on each side.”
“Why?”
“There is nothing to fear, my dear, I promise.” She cocked her head. “If you wish me to help you find my sister, I need your full cooperation.”
“I would have thought you’d want to find her for your own sake,” I said without thinking. She turned her bright blue gaze on me.
“Of course,” she said after a beat. “Now. Hands on the book.”
I obeyed, letting my hands rest on the paper.
For some reason, this simple action made my heart race, as if the book were about to grow teeth and snap at my fingers.
Why did this posture unnerve me so? It felt both familiar and dangerous, but as far as I knew, I had never done anything quite like this before.
And the paper beneath my skin was only paper, after all—there was no need to fear that it might become warm and viscous, absorbing me into itself with the slow, inexorable suction of quicksand.
My fingers trembled. I told myself not to be silly, nor to invite any further reprimands, and willed myself to stay frozen.
Milady herself stood very still beside me, only the rise and fall of her bodice giving away the fact that she was human and not a statue so beautiful that the sculptor would have abandoned their tools upon finishing it.
We watched each other for a tense moment—what was she hoping would happen?—and then the whole room seemed to take a breath, and the fire seemed to start flickering again, and I lowered my hands.
“I can’t read,” I said. “I’ve never been able to learn.”
“Well,” said Milady, and sat. There was no trace of disappointment or anger in her face, but I felt the dropping of her bright blue gaze as viscerally as if she had slapped me.
“I can memorize, though,” I added quickly. “Mother used to make me recite …”
“Recite? Interesting.” She tapped one gloved finger against her reddened lips. “Let us see. Pass me the book.”
I did so, as carefully as possible. Milady’s gloved hands seemed to open like lilies as she received it, the book barely registering as a weight in her graceful movements.
I brushed my palms on my skirts. What had Milady hoped would happen, just then?
I was used to feeling like a disappointment when it came to such things, but usually I had at least an idea of what was expected.
Milady started to read. She read through the entire first page, her voice perfectly modulated, pausing and breathing in exactly the right places to pause and breathe.
She made a point of moving her eyes very deliberately to the start of the opposing page, so that I could see where I would need to break, and then she read down the second page.
Finally, she stopped and looked up, one perfect eyebrow raised.
“Is that all?” I said. Two pages was nothing. Mother had expected me to memorize a dozen at a time, at least.
“For now, yes. Say it back to me. Without the book, this first time.”
I clasped my hands behind my back to keep them from trembling and recited the words Milady had just spoken.
My Hair strained to rise and float about me.
The gloves became tighter and tighter, until blood buzzed in my swollen fingertips, and my pulse fought against the skin of my wrists … And then it stopped.
I felt strange. Depleted.
“Fascinating,” she said when I had finished. “Yes, this will do.” She reached for my hands and peeled off the gloves with surprising ease, considering they suddenly felt about three sizes too small. “You will read this at the dinner party tomorrow.”
“A party?”
“Just a few friends, my dear, who wish to meet you. After all, what a wondrous thing, for you to appear after all these years.” Milady closed the book and passed it to me. “Take special care of it. And practice.”
I was shaking, but I took the book obediently.
The cover was soft and very lightly furred.
I imagined the lamb it had once been, before damping and stretching and scraping had transformed the skin, and I hugged it to my chest as I made my way back to my chambers, breathing more easily now I was out of Milady’s presence.
One of Milady’s footmen now stood to attention right outside my door, with the air of someone who would be standing there for a long time.
“Afternoon, Miss,” he said.
I knew now that I wasn’t a beloved, long-lost family member, or even a guest. I was a prisoner.