Chapter 21 #2
Inside is the washroom, and I take in the mirrored wall.
The glass is mottled and antique, the silver coating deteriorated in speckled blots and burnished streaks, making the reflections hazy yet charming.
Fractal daylight skims across it from an overhead window framed into the beamed ceiling.
To the right, there’s a walled-off area where I’m guessing the toilet is, and in front of the mirrored wall is a long washbasin that’s flanked by two wooden cupboards.
But what really steals the eye is the tub. It’s no simple metal or wooden bath. It’s a veritable pond made of green-tinged marble set into the floor. The servants waste no time in working a pump near the spout, and within seconds, steaming water begins to chug out.
I stare in fascination and notice that the outside of the tub is surrounded by musical notes, like numbers on a clock. The swooping metal symbols are set into the marble, circling around the entire thing.
“The Piper really likes his music,” I mumble.
The younger servant pauses as she collects clean towels from the cupboard, and she exchanges a look with the other, who’s busy pouring some sort of oil into the water.
“Come,” the older servant instructs.
I step up to the tub, and she looks pointedly at the pillow I’m still clutching.
I grudgingly let go of it, but I’m unused to being exposed in front of anyone.
I keep my head down and my arms crossed in front of my breasts, embarrassment blotching my cheeks as the servants quickly help me out of my pants.
“Your hair,” the friendly one says quietly. “It’s very unique.”
“Oh.” I reach up to my shoulder and twist the long lengths around. “Yeah, it’s a bit . . . sparkly.”
“It’s lovely,” she says.
I feel a wave of gratitude. “Thanks.”
As soon as I’m fully undressed, they help me into the tub. There’s a circular bench for me to sit on, and my skin tingles from the heat as the water fills. Yet much to my disappointment, they stop the water at my hips, probably so as not to get my wounds wet.
All three of them use cloths to start washing me, scrubbing away the dirt and grime and blood. They have to pry my arms away from my chest, though, and the whole time, I stare down at the bubbly water, face flaming.
For my hair, they have me curl forward awkwardly, head bent toward my legs.
They toss my hair over until it hangs upside down, exposing my nape, the ends dipping into the water in front of me.
The servants pour pitcher after pitcher over my strands, washing the entire length while they scrub my scalp.
The water soon turns murky. Looking at it reminds me of the vats back at the paper mill, but that thought pushes a pin through my chest. I’d give everything to be back there, breathing in the musty air.
To hear the waterwheel churn, and work alongside my aunt in companionable quiet for hours on end.
Then going home, where I could sit on my mother’s bed and listen to her lyrical voice as she chattered and asked about my day.
I ache for home so fiercely that tears fall down my cheeks and ripple the grubby water.
The servants don’t say a thing.
They rinse me, forever mindful of my wounds, and then I’m instructed to get out.
They wrap my hair in a drying cloth and tuck it neatly on the top of my head like a knotted veillet so my wet strands don’t drip down my back.
Completely naked, I have to stand there while they swipe drying cloths over my skin, soaking up every bit of water, gently patting around my wounds.
I clear my throat. “What are your names?”
Seems like I should know, since they’ve now become very acquainted with me.
The oldest, who seems to be head of this trio, is the one to answer. “I am Wend. These are Frena and Ryn.”
Frena is the one whose stars I read, and Ryn is the shy one who hasn’t spoken yet.
“Are you the Piper’s personal servants?”
“No,” Wend answers. “We serve his lordship’s guests.”
“Oh. Does he have a lot of guests?”
She pauses. “At times.”
“I see. And did he kidnap all of those guests too?”
The servants go still.
Wend’s lips thin, disapproval running through her features as she continues to avoid my eye. “His lordship is a very powerful Core fae and an honorable man—”
I snort.
She keeps going as if she didn’t hear me. “Penbroge is lucky to have him as our Govern, and you are lucky that he saw fit to have you healed rather than leave you to your fever as most would have done to a fiend.”
Sure, maybe most people would have let my infection burn through me until I succumbed. But most people didn’t kidnap me. Most people didn’t truss me up to a horse. Most people didn’t lure me away from my home.
He didn’t tend to me out of the kindness of his heart. He needs me for something. Needs us.
“Do you know where the other stolen fiends are? And the fae?”
The younger servants share a loaded look, but Wend cuts in. “We don’t know anything, and we’re not here to chatter,” she snaps with brittle irritation. “We’re here to tend. Let us do our duty, miss.”
I prickle at her chastisement, but I let it drop.
After they dry me, Frena takes a poultice and slathers it over my wounds before she and Ryn wrap my torso in clean bindings.
Then they slip a simple white linen frock over my head.
They make sure to tie the laces loosely at my back, and the bottom hem hits just above my ankles, the sleeves slack around my arms. Silk slippers are left for my feet.
Wend sits me down on the stool in front of the mirrored wall, where she begins brushing out my knotted hair.
I sit uncomfortably stiff while she works through the strands, my head tugging with every harsh brush stroke as she attacks my tangles.
I don’t voice a word of complaint, though.
Instead, I grit my teeth while I watch the other two in the reflection as they clean the tub and then go to strip the linens from the bed.
When Wend’s fingers brush up against one of my horns, she suddenly yanks her hand back as if she’s been scalded. I flinch, looking at her in confusion, and see her tap a finger to her forehead. “Rebuke,” she mutters.
I freeze.
She starts brushing again with a painful yank, but I’m too stunned to make a sound. She continues on as if the judgmental gesture didn’t happen.
I can almost hear the street peddlers shouting again.
Repent! Reject! Rebuke!
Even though I’ve just been scrubbed clean, I feel dirty.
Wend doesn’t let her fingers brush up against my horns again, and once it feels like she’s pulled out at least a hundred hairs, she finishes by placing a white veillet over my head. She frowns when she realizes my black horns are visible through the thin fabric.
My fingers curl into fists in my lap as I watch her in the mottled mirror.
“We’re done,” I say, getting to my feet. She takes a step back, and when I turn to look at her, our gazes finally clash. A few stars burst to life at the corner of her downturned lip.
Prefers routine. Critical. Devout.
I clasp my hands in front of me. “Do you pray to the Fates?” I ask.
“Of course I do. I’m no heathen.” She looks me up and down as if I am.
My eyes narrow. “Well, I pray too,” I reply, and she stiffens at my rigid tone. “Fiends aren’t at fault for the actions of the Banes.”
She hitches her expression, eyes flinging away from my eyes to settle on my chin instead. “As you say, miss.”
The dismissal in her tone is ripe with arrogance. I wish I could pluck it out.
“Food will be brought up to the sitting room,” she announces.
After giving her a tight nod, I watch as she turns and leaves.
She gathers the other two servants from the bedroom, and once I hear their retreating footsteps, I walk out.
I follow them through the door from which they’d entered the bedchamber, finding an adjoining sitting room with cream wallpaper and framed portraits, and a window tucked behind thick golden drapes.
Frena’s dress swishes as she exits through a door that leads to a corridor, where I can see a guard standing watch. When the door clicks shut behind her, I wearily sit on the plush sofa and then stare at the empty fireplace ahead.
I’ve only just woken up, but I’m already exhausted.
Exhausted, homesick, and now stuck with a harsh rebuke that echoes in my ears.