Very little.
Instead, she took a long soak in the copper tub, let herself drift awhile. Then, because packing light had meant—to her—the bare minimum of makeup, she used what she had.
Then boosted it a little with a glamour.
Maybe she’d given that scene in the courtyard a medium amount of consideration.
She’d yet to develop a real talent for hair, but since they’d be outside, the wind would make hay of any attempt anyway.
She should’ve bartered for a shawl somewhere, she thought, but she’d make do with her jacket. With the blue dress—that seemed right for a kind of funeral—and her boots, she’d be warm enough.
Maybe.
“All I’ve got anyway,” she said to Bollocks, then opened her wardrobe to find a hooded cape, the same shade as the dress, and another note from Marg.
Coastal winds blow brisk. This and the blue dress are suitable for a Leaving in the Capital. Be safe and warm, mo stór. Nan.
She smiled down at Bollocks. “Aren’t we lucky to have her?”
Though it was early, she dressed, not only to see how it all looked, but maybe—now appropriately dressed—to see if Marco wanted to wander around.
She gave the cape a couple of swirls, laughed at herself. “I don’t know why, exactly, but wearing this makes me feel like the heroine in a novel. And I like it! Let’s go see what Marco thinks.”
She started to turn to the door; Bollocks went on alert.
And someone knocked.
“Probably Marco thinking what I’m thinking.”
She opened the door to Shana.
“Ah! I thought to come help you get ready for the Leaving, but I see you are.”
“Yeah.”
As you are, Breen thought, in a forest-green dress cut square at the bodice, and cut just low enough so the fat citrine pendant she wore nestled between the rounded tops of her breasts.
“What a…” Just the slightest hesitation as Shana let her gaze travel down, then up. “Sweet dress. Did you bring it from the other side?”
“No. My grandmother gave it to me.”
“Ah.” Smiling, Shana strolled in without invitation. “Grandmothers will be old-fashioned, won’t they? Are you comfortable in your room then? And happy with the view?”
“Yes, to both. Thanks.” And since her visitor made no move to leave but wandered over to the desk, Breen laid the cloak on the bed. “Can I offer you something?”
“So kind! I would love a cup of wine. You’re a scribe, I’m told. Myself, I could never sit still long enough to write words on paper. And sitting can…” She spread her hands to indicate wide hips.
She took the wine Breen offered, then dropped into a chair, very much at home. “It must be so strange for you to be here.”
Oh, I know your type, Breen thought, and sat on the chest. I’ve dealt with you before.
Not well then, she admitted. But this was now.
“Why?”
“Ah well, a strange land, strange people.”
“I find the land beautiful, and the people wonderful. I was born here.”
“Were you? I think I heard that somewhere. And, of course, that’s part of the problem altogether, isn’t it? You being what you are, your father breeding with a human, it’s what has Odran waging war. Not that it’s your fault, not at all. And still we’ll have a Leaving tonight for those who died because he wants you. It must weigh on you.”
Very deliberately Breen poured herself a cup of wine. “It does. It weighs that he wants to use what I am to lay waste to Talamh, and other worlds. That he wants to make slaves of someone like you.” Breen sipped her wine, and thought of all the times she’d stepped back, lowered her head, taken the nasty little flicks.
No more of that.
“Because it weighs, I’m learning how to fight back. With magicks.” She circled a finger and set the candles alight on the mantel. “And with fists, with sword, with whatever it takes.”
“Mmm.” Shana leaned back in the chair, held the cup in both hands as she studied Breen over the rim. “It’s said that Keegan trains you, and you often end with your face in the dirt. Not a patient one, is Keegan.”
“How are you with a sword?”
Shana laughed. “Not all are trained for combat—not in the Capital. Elves, as you may know, have other skills. Speed, concealment. And I’m considered a fine archer.”
She twirled a finger through the curl at her ear. The rest of her hair she’d braided back into a coil at the base of her neck.