They shove me into a narrow tub that’s so thin that I can’t rest both my legs down. Instead, I have to prop one leg over the other, and because it’s not long enough either, my knees are forced to bend. The back of the tub is narrow too, so I’m cocked to the side, only one shoulder able to rest against the grains of the rough wood.
No matter how much I splutter and struggle, they have plenty of hands to hold me down. The water is tepid, and the lack of a temperature gives me the creeps, makes me cringe as I’m held in its depths.
My clothes soak through immediately, the end of my ragged braid plastered against my chest. As if it weren’t bad enough to be restrained in the most uncomfortable tub ever made, the Matrons start to pour pitchers of lukewarm water over my head. A trio of them do so one after the other, while the others start to grab my clothed limbs and scrub me with painfully firm bristled brushes.
I cry out, trying to wrench myself away, trying to appeal to their righteous attitudes with the facts of my capture, but it’s no use. I’m surrounded by white veils and devout insanity.
Bright side? At least they’re so against touching that they’re using these awful scrub brushes over my clothes. I think my skin would be peeling off in raw strips otherwise.
The soap they use smells sharply astringent, burning my scalp and cutting into my pores. And all while I’m being roughly handled, they preach to me about their gods. The ones who reward purity of the flesh and obedience of the mind. The ones who demand self-restraint and sacrifice.
They say nothing of the goddesses. Of matronly love or female fortitude.
When they haul me out of the tub, I get dumped beside the huge bowl of burning flame, clothes dripping all over until I’m given a scratchy blanket to soak up some of the water.
Someone combs my hair, doing it so gently that it makes the rough scrubbing of my skin seem even more of a shock. I try to shove her away anyway, but one of the other Matrons snaps a paddle against the back of my hand, making me hiss in pain. “Sit, my lady, and be still. Take this time to prepare for prayer.”
“I’ll take this time to prepare to flood this room with power, soaking you all through and then scrubbing at your skin until it’s raw,” I snarl back.
If they want to make me a villain, then I’ll fucking be one.
She sucks in a breath, and I feel a small sense of victory at having shocked her. After being drugged and kidnapped, tortured and dragged here, my sense of control is slipping and making me feel like a cornered animal. I want nothing more than to tap into my fae nature, to wrench out the beast inside of me and melt down the world beneath a vat of gold, but Queen Isolte’s magic is absolutely crippling.
But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to try. I just need a little bit longer to recover. Just need to bide my time and pretend I’m powerless. I don’t need much gold. All I’d need to do is take out this bitch of a queen. Maybe I’ll make my gold squeeze her between a metallic vise. I bet she wouldn’t be so smug then.
Speaking of…
“Lady Cheat will do nothing of the sort,” Queen Isolte announces as she comes into my line of vision. She stands with her back against a mural of a priest in all white presiding over a dozen Matrons kneeling at his feet. The gray strips of sins on their robes match the number of lashes against a supposed “sinner’s” back as he slumps against a pole. There’s light shining on the priest, glinting off the whip as if he’s the gods’ gift to the world and his meted out punishment is something to be revered.
My stomach churns.
“She will submit to the rest of her Cleansing with grace,” the queen goes on. “These threats hold no merit in this room, for they are spoken by the wickedness inside of her that we must help rid her of.”
The other Matrons murmur their agreement.
My eyes narrow on her. “And tell me, how do you rid yourself of your wickedness, Queen Isolte?”
I feel more than see the others go still. The Matron at my back pauses in her brushing.
“My sins have been absconded already,” the queen replies brusquely. “We too go through the ritual of a Cleansing. Though we endure many of them, as well as perform our services to the Divine, and to our priests. It is why no strips mar my robes, why I have risen up past my soul’s deficiencies. I have been chosen to lead the Guardians of Temperance.”
“But you don’t really lead it, do you?” I ask, notching my chin up toward the mural. “Women can’t be priests, isn’t that right?” I ask, going out on a limb.