Chapter Thirty-Two #2
Reluctantly, I leave the railing to step inside and duck behind the privacy screen. The tub looks like a giant wine barrel cut in half. The water is murky now, but it still steams, filling the air with the scents of orange blossoms and neroli oil.
I shuck my filthy clothes and undo my braid. I pull Cerastes’s amulet over my head and hang it on the edge of the screen—it’s
the first time I’ve taken it off since the goddess gave it to me. As I slip into the hot water, I can’t help the little moan
that escapes. I sink as far as I’m able and let the water close over my head.
It’s a long time before I come up for air, but when I do, I get to work. On a stool beside the barrel tub is a washcloth and
a lump of soap that smells of honey and lavender. I scrub my face, my skin, my nails, until I’m bright pink as a peony. I
lather my hair and watch blond strands float away on the water’s surface, mixing with Titus’s reddish-brown ones.
There was a time I would have been disgusted to share bathwater with someone, to watch their hair swirl around mine, but becoming
Titus’s liege has created such an odd intimacy between us. We’ve shared meals, mounts, sleeping arrangements, and hastily
dug latrines. What’s a little bathwater between close friends?
When the water is cool and I’ve scrubbed everything I can think to scrub at least twice, I rise to my feet and sluice away
dirty water with my hands. I use the rinse bucket as efficiently as possible, paying special attention to my hair. Toweling
off gets rid of the last stubborn vestiges of our weeks on the road.
I’m reaching for the clothing draped over the privacy screen when the strangest, most daring thought makes me pause.
I’m naked. Clean. Refreshed. Maybe a little tipsy from pomegranate wine. Nothing is stopping me from stepping out of this bathing area and into Titus’s full view.
For a full minute, I contemplate what could be. My breathing quickens as I imagine the look on his face. The feeling of his
hands on my skin. I’ve never been so bold with a boy before.
Then it’s like I’ve been doused with freezing-cold bathwater as I realize I won’t be bold today, either. It would be temporary.
A distraction. Selfish.
And—I admit to myself—there’s the chance he’d reject me, and I’m not sure my heart could take that.
The clothing picked out for me consists of a knee-length linen skirt with red silk flowers embroidered into the hem, a matching
shirt cleverly cut to tie around my rib cage, lifting my breasts into the low neckline and leaving my midriff bare, and a
pair of leather sandals with tiny shells sewn into the straps. Whoever selected this outfit is showing me a kindness. It’s
cool and fashionable enough, but sturdy and modest in comparison to what I’ve seen since I’ve arrived. Perfect for a Grimsvolder
girl making her way in Cathira.
I’m still showing a lot more skin than I’m accustomed to when I finally leave the bath area to ask Titus what our next move
is.
He’s conked out on the bed, open mouth drooling into a tasseled pillow, one leg hanging over the edge.
I fail to stifle my giggle. Of course he’s exhausted. We both are. As his shield maiden, would he prefer that I wake him or
let him sleep? He’s become so dark and desperate with urgency the last two weeks, pushed us so hard.
I decide to let him sleep. Quietly, I grab a pillow from the bed and lay myself down on the floor beside him. After sleeping on bare ground for so long, the rug feels absolutely decadent. I let myself sink.
A knock on the door startles me awake. Titus too, given the way the bed creaks.
I jump to my feet, blinking hard to force the sleep away. I have no idea how long we’ve slept, but it’s still nighttime. I
glance at Titus, who nods, and I open the door.
A Dhakaran girl stands there, holding a large silver food tray in one hand, a smaller letter tray in the other. She has the
same striking amber eyes as Titus, but her features are more delicate, her hair a brighter red. Her figure is as slender as
a riverbank reed, like she could be pushed over by the slightest wind. Her tiny feet are bare. I’d wager she’s about fifteen
years old. Anja’s age.
Her fingertips are as black as coal.
“My lady,” she says, managing a deep curtsy—quite a feat considering the size and weight of the items she carries. “I’m your
spark maiden. I also bring refreshments courtesy of Innkeep Barwat, as well as a missive from the palace.”
“Please come in,” I say, making way for her. I have no idea what a spark maiden is.
Titus has risen from the bed. His hair is as high and sturdy as a wall, having dried while wet. My lips twitch against their
will.
The Dhakaran girl sets her trays on the correspondence desk and turns to the fire, which has burned itself out while we slept. “I can get this going again if you like,” she says. “It will become colder still, before the sun rises.”
“Yes, please,” I say, though I see no fire-starting kit anywhere.
Titus moves to the food tray and lifts the lid, revealing several types of fruit and cheese, a flagon of wine or juice, and
a loaf of bread. He pops a square of yellow cheese into his mouth.
The girl pokes around in the cold embers, pulling out a few unburned sticks. She makes them into a little tent, then adds
a few branches from the neat woodpile beside the fireplace.
She places her black fingertips against the wood and closes her eyes. Tiny sparks shower from her fingers, most of them landing
in the ash. But a few settle on dry wood. She gently blows on them until they flare.
So that’s what a spark maiden is.
“That’s a marvelous Gift!” I tell her as she steps away from the fireplace.
She shrugs, her face wan, the light gone from her eyes. “It got me an indenture,” she says.
Behind me, Titus is becoming a storm cloud, dark and roiling, and I think I know why. His birth mother was an indentured servant.
Little better than a slave.
“Do you have many fires to light tonight?” I ask.
“This is the fourth and last,” she says. “But they’ll wake me in a few hours to light the bread oven.”
She looks like she’s ready to fall over. Her Gift is not strong enough for what’s required of her, but as usual, the owner
of her contract will wring every last bit of magic out of her. Likely without giving her sufficient food or sleep.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Dahlia, my lady,” she says. “But it’s fine to address me as spark maiden.”
“Dahlia is such lovely name,” I tell her. “I prefer to use it.”
She curtsies. “As my lady wishes. Is there anything else?” Dahlia is swaying on her feet, and her right forefinger has a slight
tremor.
“Just one thing. A favor.”
Titus gives me a questioning look, but he makes no move to interfere with whatever I’m about.
“Anything, my lady,” Dahlia says in a flat tone, looking anywhere but at my face.
“You see, we hate grapes. Loathe them, actually. But we don’t want to offend our host. Political relations, I’m sure you understand.”
I know nothing of political relations and likely neither does she, but she nods.
“If I were to pluck all these grapes, would you be willing to eat them for me? And then not tell a soul that we didn’t actually
eat them ourselves?”
Her amber eyes flare. In hope or offense, I can’t discern, but then she whispers, “Yes.”
“Thank you so much!” I tell her, and I move toward the tray, but Titus is already plucking grapes and putting them into a
handkerchief.
Titus ties them into a bundle and hands them to her, adding, “Inform Innkeep Barwat that we require your exclusive services
for the remainder of our stay. If he wishes, he may send someone to confirm.”
“Yes, my lord,” she says, snatching the bundle of grapes. “Thank you, my lord.”
And then she hurries out the door, a little spring in her step that wasn’t there before.
Titus says, “Thank you for that.”
“She looked really hungry.”
“And exhausted. Maybe we can give her a break for a day or two.”
“Demanding her exclusive service was . . . bold.” It never occurred to me that such a thing would be within our power.
“I’m sure he’s figured out who I am. Besides . . .” Titus grabs the letter from the tray and waves it at me. “We just got
invited to the Sundereve Ball. It’s the most exclusive function of the year. Right now we could ask the innkeeper to give
us the clothes off his back, and he would do it.”
The letter tray is not empty. Five Suratian silvers gleam up at me. The palace sent us funds too. It’s a wonder they weren’t
stolen by the innkeeper or his staff.
I grab the letter from Titus’s hand and read. Not only have we been invited to the palace for the Sundereve Ball, we’ll be
attending as special guests of the high potentat herself. A tailor will visit us in the morning to take our measurements and
wardrobe us appropriately, and a palanquin will pick us up two days hence, when bells ring the evening’s seventh hour.
“Seems like your friend the legatat came through.”
“I thought she might. This is how I’ll get an audience with my foster mother, make sure she knows about King Jaydeth amassing
troops, see if Syla had any luck finding the horn of . . . Why are you grinning so hard?”
I feel like a little girl waking up on her name day. “I’ve always wanted to go to a ball! I mean, we’ve held dances in the common room plenty of times, but a proper ball! In a palace!”
“Ugh,” Titus says, plopping onto the bed. “I hate parties.” He looks up at me, his face forlorn. “And I really love grapes.”