Chapter Six
Everything she needs, then everything she wants.
The Queen’s robes. His mother’s robes.
A gift from family of old to new family—that was special in any household, from palaces to hovels.
She had her brother Amos’ talisman, the one she’d made for him when she was twelve. It was supposed to keep him safe. Of course, he hadn’t been wearing it the day he died. Of course, she hadn’t reminded him, either.
She blinked away painful thoughts, thoughts of guilt, of not doing enough to save either brother, but especially not Amos. She should have done better after one loss. Should have prevented the second.
The talisman, wood and leather, was in her bundle of things, something to remember him by, and now she had an overwhelming desire to give it to Girion instead, some act of gratitude, however small, to thank him for all of this.
“All of this” was too much to truly take in when you have lived from hand to mouth, magic or no. Fine food and fabrics whirled around her, the massive room with still more smaller rooms inside of it opened before her eyes, and logs blazed in a hearth taller than her.
Luxury. For simply adding my name to his household, healing the land and warming the people—things I have always tried to do, whether it was a spare bowl of stew for a fisherman with a poor catch or putting the fishbones back in the soil—when we could break down the ice enough to open the dirt beneath.
It still felt wrong to be here, legs stuck out and toes pointing to a roaring fire, people refilling her cups and plates as if she’d lost use of her hands.
And bowing.
She would never get used to the bowing.
“When you are done eating, Mistress Jocasta, will you allow me to take some measurements? If you will, then we can have a selection of gowns for you in the morning.”
The old man with a bent back and bushy eyebrows nodded to her, and she put down her spoon. “Let’s do it now. People shouldn’t be kept waiting. It’s late. In the morning, you say? Goodness, isn’t it nearly morning already?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Jocasta shed layers and layers. People took them and informed her they would be washed and dried.
When she was stripped down to her underthings—faded cream-colored cotton under leggings that covered her from waist to knees, and an undershirt that laced tight under the bust and tucked into her bottoms—one of the ladies with the old man attacked with a measuring string, darting around her like a tern spotting a fish, nipping it around her neck, her bust, her waist, and then running it down the sides of her legs and arms.
“Nightwear! Slippers! Linens!” For such a genteel voice used in addressing her, the man with the key and the stoop could bark out orders like a general. People flurried.
“Hot bath! Bed turned down! Lamps lit.” A snap of his fingers, and they scattered like seabirds when a seal breaks the surface.
Fine, warm flannel gowns for underneath, and satin layers to place over top appeared on the opulent bed.
Slippers that were soft and warm as a snuggling rabbit were thrust onto her feet, and heeled slippers with silver buckles and fine fabric were left under the bed.
Hot irons wrapped in cloth were put at the bottom of said bed, and steam poured and rolled out of the room closest to the hearth.
“Do you wish an attendant?”
“To bathe and dress? No, I’m not sick,” Jocasta looked stunned at the idea.
“Then we will see you for breakfast, and I will remain near your chambers in case you need anything,” Herrick said.
Herrick was a giant of a man with a short red beard, green eyes, and a hard jaw.
Jocasta smiled. Nothing was getting into her room—unless it was the king.
Girion the Great. They called him that for a reason. A mountain of a man...
“May I beg a favor of our guest?” Cole’s voice drifted in as servants filed out, taking all of her used dishes and cutlery, leaving wine, water, cheese, and nuts behind on the table.
“Goodness! What happened?” Jocasta, now wrapped in a robe of deepest blue with tiny gold threads dancing through it, looked at the bloodied Captain of the Guard in surprise.
“I ran into something. Girion thought that maybe you might be able to...”
She held out her head. Wind and water. Blood is so much water. And breath is just the wind in our lungs. She thought hard on these things, willing blood to still and stop seeping, for all the forces in him to obey her.
There was a strangled gasp, and then she lowered her hand. Cole breathed greedily and touched his dry, rapidly scabbing-over lip. “That was useful—but I guess you have to be quick about it,” he gagged out, choking on air.
“Be grateful it wasn’t a bigger wound, or I’d be healing you in small doses,” Jocasta muttered. “Will the king be visiting me tonight?”
“No, he wishes to let you rest, unless you invite him in.” Cole’s eyes flickered ever so slightly over her figure, and she felt her cheeks burn. “He will always be honored to attend to you. You are now his most valuable ally,” he whispered, and bowed himself out of the room.
Jocasta stared at the door after he left.
“Herrick?” she called.
The door popped open, and the red-headed giant addressed her with a quick, “Yes, miss?”
“Are you going to stand there all night?”
“Yes.”
“When will you sleep?”
“Later.”
She rolled her eyes. That was hardly the answer she had in mind. “There are guards all over the walls. Caledon hasn’t gone to war in years.”
“Would you rather attack a heavily guarded king or an undefended one?” he pointed out reasonably.
That was Girion’s way. Guard heavily. Be ready. Plan and prepare. The palace was a fortress. Everyone, or at least nearly everyone she had ever met, was loyal and sang the praises of the king, and aside from complaints about the growing cold, enjoyed the kingdom as a whole.
He must be doing something right.
I pray I do not ruin it.
Any thoughts that she had about the look they’d shared alone on the tundra fled from her imagination.
There wasn’t anything tender or wistful in his gaze.
Couldn’t be. His heart was as much a fortress as his city.
She might be allowed to live in the palace, but she was never going to get inside his heart.
THE HOT BATH AND WARM bed after the oddest day of her life lulled Jocasta to sleep, and trays of fruit and bread woke her up far later than she would have allowed herself back home.
Home.
Parents.
Maybe they were busy with new hires to train, new joy in their hearts.
Or perhaps they were huddled together, their house silent and empty.
“Are there any fishmongers in Tundra Springs?” she mused aloud.
“Three, miss, the one in Polar Square, the one in Great Larch Circle, and the one in Churchman’s Alley. I wouldn’t go to that one, miss.”
Jocasta swallowed a gasp as Herrick answered. “You should be asleep!”
“When you are up and in the presence of my relief, I will sleep. Would you like fresh fish, miss?”
“No, no. I was only wondering.” Wondering if my parents could hire someone to run their shop back home, and if they could run a shop here. Perhaps I could sneak away and help.
Oh yes, a Queen gutting fish in the middle of Tundra Springs, how lovely.
But Tundra Springs was lovely, indeed, or at least what she’d seen of it in the dark and heard of in lessons at school. She hurried to pull open the drapes and gaze out at the city—and instead she found herself gazing out at pines. A lake.
A bear.
A giant white bear, splashing from the lake, through the center of the pines, making his way to a pile in the snow.
Girion. A blurry figure.
A blurry, naked figure, and then a blurry, cloaked figure, coming closer, walking as if the cold had no meaning to him.
As if he heard her move the drapes, he looked up, and she thought he smiled.
But she couldn’t tell for certain.
THE MASTER OF THE WARDROBE arrived with two small figures, delicate, swift women with small noses and pale skin that was almost pink.
“Laren and Letty. Your attendants and two trusted seamstresses,” The Master of the Wardrobe said.
Which was a mouthful each time you wanted to call for someone, wasn’t it? “Do you have a name that I could use instead of a title?” she asked.
“Master Nalar.”
“Master Nalar, I can dress myself. I—”
Jocasta stopped dead when a metal rail of dresses and cloaks arrived and was marched into a vast cedar wardrobe. The rod slotted between two indents, and the bearers bowed and left.
“Those are your selections for today.”
“For today!?”
“Inside cloaks, outside cloaks, under skirts, over skirts, dresses, bodices, sleeves—”
“Aren’t the sleeves in the dress?”
“Not always.”
A sinking feeling attacked her middle, that same sick sense of dread that came when a big wave sloshed over the deck and left her gasping and spitting salt. The one that said, “Am I going to make it?” The fear always rose up, even if she tried to keep it at bay.
I don’t even know how to wear a dress. What else don’t I know?
Master Nalar clucked his tongue softly. “Don’t fret. Laren and Letty will help you.”
SHE HAD TO LEARN TO wear dresses that fastened in the front or laced up the back.
Ot both. She couldn’t pull all the fine layers on over her head and let the fabric fall to her knees, unlike all the simple clothes she’d grown up with and still preferred.
No more under leggings that she stuffed into boots.
No more boots, not unless she were venturing out, and apparently, she was not venturing out.
Girion came to collect her, a resigned look on his face.
“It’s the dress, isn’t it?” Jocasta demanded. “I’m too dumpy and short for these things.”
Girion looked as though she’d smacked him with a wet herring. “What? You look stunning. Regal. You are gorgeous.” He ladled out compliments in a gruff voice, coughing into his fist.