Hello, friend. I say. How good to see you!
Hello! It says cheerily.
A tightness pulls at my chest that Basten brought me the little mouse, even though it gave him so much trouble on our journey. I almost wish I’d been awake when he came so that I could have seen him . . .
Stop it.
Brigit leans forward with twinkling lights in her eyes. “I think your godkiss is incredible, my lady. You should hear what the people are saying about how you defied Lord Rian’s command by arriving covered in all those birds. It was a sight to behold!”
Do the people of Duren not like their high lord? Or are they just happy for any gossip?
“I hope you don’t mind that I washed and dressed you,” she continues, and for the first time, I realize I’m wearing a soft cotton chemise with satin ribbons at the collar. “And the healer attended to the wound on your foot and scratches on your arms. She’s godkissed.”
I free my foot from the silken sheets to examine the puncture wound. It’s entirely healed, not even a scar. “She couldn’t do anything about my sore muscles?”
Brigit’s face falls slightly. “She’s at the army barracks presently, but now that you’re awake, I’ll call for a fresh bath with herbs for your soreness.”
She gives a thick cord near the door a tug, signaling to the servants downstairs. Then she scampers over to the wardrobe, proudly throwing open its doors. “After your bath, you can select any gown you wish. They’ve been made just for you.”
One glance tells me the clothes are just as opulent and costly as everything else in Sorsha Hall. Clarana silk, delicate patterned lace, metallic-threaded damask, brocaded satin. The colors range from sky blue to midnight black and everything in between. Brigit opens smaller drawers, tilting them to show me the glistening jewelry inside.
She’s so proud to show off these riches that I’d be a monster not to smile. “Lovely—it’s all lovely. I’d really like some food, though.”
“Oh! Of course. What would you like?”
My lips part, unsure. What would I like? Not even in my father’s manor house was I ever asked that question. My mind scrambles; in my grogginess, all I can think about is the gruel I’ve eaten for twelve years.
At my strange silence, Brigit says, “I’ll just have them bring an assortment.” She returns to the pull cord and tugs it twice this time, then pops over to the door, cracks it, and whispers something to the guards on duty.
Soon, servants bring steaming boiling water to fill the marble tub, and Brigit helps me ease into it. A sprinkling of ground eucalyptus and lavender scents the air, and Brigit rubs coarse salts against my skin, which hurts in a delicious way. She scrubs my hair with rosemary oil until my scalp tingles. I stare blankly at the dresses, so Brigit selects a sage-colored silk gown for me, embroidered with a leaf pattern. The hem pulls up high on one side, showing off a good portion of my leg, but it isn’t nearly as revealing as much of what I saw on Duren’s streets.
While she’s brushing my damp hair, someone knocks at the door, and Brigit rushes to answer it. I hear a brief exchange, and then smell the most deliciously mouth-watering scents of roasted meat and fresh bread.
“Oh, thank the gods. I’m starving.” I push up from the dressing table and spin, ready to pounce on anything I can get in my mouth—
And freeze.
Lord Rian is at the door, tray in hand. I glimpse a flash of Brigit’s backside as she disappears into the hallway.
Swallowing a knot in my throat, I sink back down to the stool. As intimidated as I am by his presence, my mouth still waters at the smells coming from that tray. I glimpse fresh berries, haunches of roasted game bird, hunks of cheese that have me licking my chops.
“Lord Rian. You—you brought my food yourself?”
“You’d have preferred a servant?”
“Well, yes.” I’m too damn hungry to think up a clever retort.
A genuine laugh erupts from his chest. He sets down the tray and drags over two stools. He doesn’t have to beckon me to the table—my feet are already taking me there, eyes pinned greedily to the food. As I sink onto the stool, I can hardly decide what to tear into first. The bowl of spiced nuts? Some kind of meat dumpling? A creamy burdock soup? When Brigit said she’d request an assortment, I didn’t think she meant a banquet.
There’s something that looks like stuffed gamebird drizzled in a golden sauce, and I tear into it with bare hands, not caring if Rian thinks I have no manners. So what? He made me eat over a campfire for the last twenty-one days. He can stand to see his bride act like a savage.
With luck, I’ll disgust him.
But he doesn’t seem disgusted as he watches me gobble down sliced herring on bread, and pear tarts, and cheese topped with plum sauce. He smiles broadly, captivated, as he pours us both brandy.
“Are you determined to fatten yourself so I won’t want to marry you? If so, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I like women of all sizes.”
I pause briefly in chewing to roll my eyes. I’d give him sharper words, but my patience is better when I have food to focus on. “Let me guess, you planned this. You know I’m starving, so you deliver a king’s feast with your own two hands. You mean to control me with food.”
His head pitches to the ceiling as he laughs. “My lady, you’ve quite a vivid imagination. It’s only quail. If I wanted to manipulate you, I’d have served swan.”
To him, this feast is beggar’s food. But for me, wealth doesn’t mean money. It means a full belly. And knowing I’ll have a full belly again tomorrow and the day after that. The contents of this tray are more valuable to me than the priceless artwork hanging on Sorsha Hall’s walls.
Out.
I pause, a plump raspberry posed in front of my lips. There it is again—that voice. Definitely not in a dream this time. It tickles the same part of my mind as animals’ communication, but there’s a foreign feeling to it, unlike any animal I’ve ever known. The voice rings with anger, too. The chill of it leaves me feeling like wind just swept through the room.
“Lady Sabine? Are you well? Is it indigestion?” He’s teasing.
I shoot him a hard look as I set down the raspberry. “Basten didn’t say you were funny.”
His eyes gleam oddly as his head cocks. A long beat passes before he says, “He told you his real name? What else did Basten say?”
There’s an odd note in his voice. I realize I might have said the wrong thing. I don’t want Rian to suspect anything happened between the two of us. As much as I want to hurt Basten, I realize now that I’d be stabbing myself in the foot, too. For better or worse, I need Rian to like me. Until I can figure out a plan, I need to play his games, and keep my food and safety secure.
Fortunately, I’m spared by a demanding rap at the door. The wine jostles in our glasses. I jump.
Rian’s brows lower, displeased. He barks loudly, “What is it?”
But his demeanor changes when an older man enters.
He’s around my father’s age, with the same graying hair and lines on his face, but the comparison ends there. The years have diminished my father. This man seems to have only strengthened with age like petrified wood. His height is imposing, as is his doublet made of leather and ultrafine chainmail. On most people, decorative armor is merely a shiny accent—on him, it’s a threat.