Chapter 6 Rathmor
Rathmor
Islip back through the window the way I left, easing the latch into place until it makes no sound. The room smells faintly of soap and linen, unchanged, as if the night did not touch it at all.
I tug the borrowed clothes off quickly and fold them small, pressing them beneath the mattress where no one ever looks. The trousers still carry the warmth of my body. I hesitate, then push them farther out of sight and smooth the coverlet flat again, restoring the room to its expected order.
Only when I climb into bed do my hands begin to shake.
I lie there, staring up at the ceiling, breath slowing little by little.
My body feels alert, sensitive and aware in a way I don’t have words for yet.
I press my knees together, grounding myself, half afraid the memory will slip away if I don’t hold it still.
I’ve got you, he had said. I had asked for nothing and was still answered. For once, my body was not a thing to be endured or traded, but something that listened to me, something that belonged to me.
Tomorrow, there will be a veil again, a contract to honor, a future already arranged. But tonight, beneath these covers, I know something they do not. I know what it feels like to be wanted. And I will carry that knowledge with me, no matter what they demand next.
I wake with my head throbbing and my mouth tasting like old ale and smoke. For one brief moment, I pretend I am still free. That I am still laughing in a tavern with dirt on my face and my veil folded in my pocket. That the night did not end.
Then water crashes over me. It is icy and foul, soaking through my bedding, my hair, my clothes. The smell follows immediately, stale water and straw and horse.
A servant stands over me with an empty bucket, her lips pressed into a satisfied line. “A present from Lady Yvara,” she says. “From the horses.” She leaves before I can answer.
I dress in silence. My head aches. My skin still carries the faint smell no matter how much water I use. I wrap my veil tight and gather the few things that belong to me, which is to say almost nothing.
By the time I reach Rathmor, the sky is caught between night and morning, and the palace waits like it already knows I belong to it.