Chapter 9
Nine
Sorcha
My whole body hurt when I woke up. Memories from the previous night clung to my skin in a fog of bizarre and dissonant sensations. I was still in my dress. Blood still streaked my legs. And Neal was still curled at my back, arm heavy over my waist, face pressed into my hair.
Was I supposed to wake him? To kiss him again?
I’d figure that out later. I needed to get clean first. So I quietly climbed out of bed, leaving the giant tortoiseshell barn cat under Neal’s arm in my place, and finally drank the water left on the nightstand. Then I stripped my clothes and scrubbed the stains off my legs.
Should I still be in this much pain? Who was I even supposed to ask?
A knock on my bedroom door startled me from my thoughts. My eyes leapt to Neal, still hard asleep, tangled in blankets, cat under his arm. I dragged my robe around my shoulders and slipped into the hallway.
“Little one, you’re late for breakfast,” Nokona said as I closed the door quietly behind me. “You look pale. Did you wake up sick? You’ve been out too late too many nights now, little one.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “I’ll be down soon.”
“I can make you hot chocolate?” she offered. I swallowed hard and fought back tears. I didn’t deserve her. Certainly not after last night. My thoughts went immediately to the dried blood I’d scoured from my skin just moments before. I fought down a shudder.
“Please do,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Love you, little one,” she said. “Now go wash up.”
I slipped back into my room then went to my wardrobe and pulled out an old dress from a few winters back.
It was dark blue wool, dated, with a gathered V-front bodice, dropped shoulders, and a high, ivory-lace-trimmed neckline.
Severe was the word my father had used. I’d switched to half mourning the day after his funeral—wearing the handful of soft grey, mauve, and lavender linen and cotton-print dresses that seemed to have shown up in my wardrobe spontaneously overnight.
I assumed Nokona had put them there but hadn’t asked.
But the darker, starker navy in the thicker wool felt right today. I wanted armor.
I fixed my hair, disheveled from sleeping with it up last night, then smeared some of Nokona’s beeswax salve over my tearstained cheeks, ignored the awful dark circles under my eyes, and tucked my plainest white cap over my ears. Neal finally roused when I sat down on the bed to button my boots.
“You okay?” he asked blearily.
I gestured vaguely at the bloody rags I’d discarded in the corner. “It hurts. A lot.”
“I’m sorry,” Neal murmured, hand ghosting over my lower back.
“I’m not an expert,” I muttered. “But I’m pretty sure it didn’t have to hurt this much.”
“Forgive me?” Neal asked.
“We’ll get there,” I said. “Go find me something for the pain. Go find me breakfast. We both have work to do.”
And with that, I took a deep breath, picked up two of the cats, and forced myself to leave the relative safety of the bedroom.
I greeted the servants like normal and passed off one of the cats to a stable boy.
They didn’t know, I told myself. Nobody had to know.
I was nauseous—my stomach cramping and sore—but I knew I should probably eat something.
It hurt to walk, and my head was pounding.
Ansel was waiting in the kitchen, like usual. Neal came downstairs close at my heels—still in the same clothes from last night. There were still streaks of dried blood on him, mostly concealed by the dark fabric of his trousers. I shoved a kitchen towel in his direction.
“Clean up,” I hissed under my breath.
There were a few guards lounging around the table—they’d been multiplying like rabbits since my father died—plus the cook and our two housemaids bustling around the hearth. A mug of cocoa waited for me on the countertop, a little heart chalked onto the stoneware and a dusting of cinnamon on top.
“Give us a minute,” Ansel said loudly, clapping his hands together and shooing the guards and the cooks out the side door. “Official business.”
He closed and bolted both doors after them.
“Don’t want extra eyes and ears after something like last night.” Ansel cracked a smile. “Now come. Sit. Eat.”
I put down the orange tabby and went to sit at the table—wincing as the hard stool amplified the soreness. Neal pushed a plate of food over to me.
“As requested,” he said.
I nodded, then forced myself to take a few bites, intensely aware of Neal and Ansel staring.
“So how’d it go?” Ansel asked. His eyes were bright, curious, a little teasing.
“I’m still bleeding,” I replied, shifting uncomfortably on the stool.
“I can go find a cushion?” Neal offered sheepishly.
I waved him off, then heard Ansel mutter something under his breath about marital incompetence.
“Drink this,” Neal said, putting a mug of tea in front of me.
I picked up the cup, took a sip, and suddenly any facade dropped. It was awful. Bitter and astringent and sour. I spat it out on the floor. So much for dignity. My head swam and I nearly fell off the stool. Neal caught my shoulders before I could slip.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, soft enough I doubted Ansel even heard.
“What is that?” I asked, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as I shrugged off Neal’s grip. Ansel chuckled.
“Willow bark,” Neal said, putting the mug back into my grasp. “Drink it. Please. It’s for pain.”
“You’re as comforting as a brick wall, boy,” Ansel muttered. “Put sugar in it. Much as you want. Just get it down.”
He nudged the sugar bowl in my direction.
“I hate this,” I muttered, putting my head down on the table.
“And you know what I hate?” Ansel said conversationally. “Those new guards you brought on, Neal. Hiram might actually be an idiot. Let’s go see if they’re actually doing their job this morning and leave Sorcha to her cats.”