“Hey, we had a deal.” She shut the door before I could reach it. “Now it’s your turn.”
“Really. I’m fine. You should see Marsh next anyway.”
“I will”—she locked the door—“as soon as you and I are done.” She outstretched her arm, inviting me to sit in one of the study’s chairs.
I didn’t move.
She crossed her arms over her smock, relaxing her stance. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she said before scrunching up her face. “Well, at least not on purpose.”
“It’s not that,” I said.
“Then what is it?”
“I’d rather do it myself.”
I’d rather you don’t know anything about it.
“Pride will get you nowhere. Besides, you’ll do a terrible job wrapping your wounds with one hand,” she quipped. “Now, sit down before I get some of the guards outside to make you.”
Unsure if she made a joke or a threat, I sat in the chair under protest. I’d rather one person know than two. The humidity coupled with wetting my arm in the children’s baths had weighted the unbreathing fabric. Rolling the sleeve up felt as good to the exposed wounds as it hurt the ones waiting for air.
“My gods!” She covered her mouth with her hands. “How many?” Her eyes rose one by one up the rungs of my marks as I made each of them visible.
“Fourteen,” I said, still rolling the fabric.
Her head shook side to side, her face flushed, and her eyes filled.
“I have one for every child.”
As an intelligent woman, she’d put it together on her own. However, I’d prefer she knew the truth rather than make assumptions on her own. Mother always said secrets are either too sweet or too sour to keep. Even if she didn’t start a rumor, Noran would steal the information and twist it. If she was like most people, she’d believe the first version she heard. It might as well be the real one.
“My lady, these go so high, it will be best to remove the robe.”
I didn’t want to admit she was right. She held the rolled sleeve as I untied the knot resting above my pregnant belly. Knowing what she would see caused me to pause.
“There is no need for modesty. I’ve seen expectant mothers before, and believe me, there is nothing more beautiful.”
Her subtle encouragement made me chuckle. “I’m not concerned about the natural attributes of my body but the ones I wished I hadn’t been forced to endure.”
I slipped off the garment from my right side, exposing my full breast and the scars from the wolf’s bite. Not having the courage to learn her expression, I turned my head as she teased the robe from the highest mark on my arm. A captured breath broke free as the tender flesh tore from the silk threads of the floral fabric.
“That’s the worst of it,” she said. “You’re doing fine.” Keeping the sleeve wide, she lowered the garment down the length of my arm without ever again touching my wounds. Her concentration distracted her from everything else, but when the extent of my injuries registered, her breath hitched.
With the robe clutched in her hands, the nurse stepped back. “This…” She paused, and I let my curiosity be satisfied by watching her. I covered my chest, knowing it was not my fullness that robbed her of her composure. Her heartbeat moved the fear from her center to the tips of her fingers and toes. I sensed it. The words she tried to form did nothing but spasm across her lips like a fish gasping after being plucked from water.
“How?” She stumbled backward, tripping over the loose ties of the robe dragging on the floor. “My Lady, this is the…that’s the Woodsmen’s mark.”
I nodded.
“Has Lord Calish seen this?”
“Not yet.”
Moments before, she argued to treat me. Faced with the truth and meaning of my injuries, she regretted it. Her pulse quickened. I could tell by the way her jugular pulsed against the surface of her skin. She swallowed, licked her lips, then cleared her throat all while tracing the mark on my shoulder with her terrified eyes.
I tried to pretend it wasn’t worth her reaction. “It’s just another burn.”
“No. My Lady,” she said, a shiver in her hushed voice. “You were marked by Him.” She fell to her knees and bowed so deeply her forehead touched the ground.
“For goodness’ sake, nurse! Get up!” I demanded. “This is unnecessary, not to mention embarrassing!”
“I should have treated you first,” she cried, her head still on the floor. “Please forgive me, my Lady.” She crawled to my feet and kissed them. I would have kicked her away if it didn’t mean kicking her in the face.
“Stand up!” I ordered, but she continued to grovel at my feet. “I said stand, woman!” I gave my foot a little nudge against her forehead. “What’s the matter with you?”
She sat up, her cheeks turned pale. “You don’t know?”
“I’ll tell you what I know,” I growled. “I know I didn’t want you to see my wounds, I know you wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, and I know now I should have made you leave me alone! That’s what I know!”
“I’m so sorry.” She struggled to stand. “I’ll treat your wounds.” She forced a smile on her troubled face. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Please, just do me a favor.”
“Yes, my Lady?”
“Just act normal.”
“Of course,” she agreed, a bit too energetically. “Now, let’s get you all fixed up, shall we?” She bobbed her head nonstop.
Smile. Sparkle. Nod.
“I would appreciate that.”
Her demeanor would not be the same again. She watched her words before; after she saw the mark, she didn’t mutter a word.
“I have one more request.”
She nodded, her hands trembling.
“Don’t tell a single soul about this mark.” I raised my eyes to her.
Her eyes wide, she shook her head with an intensity I’d never seen in an adult.
“I mean it. Never mention it to anyone, ever.”
“I swear on my life,” she promised as she pulled more wrapping from her bag. I didn’t need to read her future; based on the fear in her eyes, I believed her.
Faking courage, I sat silently in my chair as she treated my wounds while mulling over the power of Kash’s final brand.
The mark isn’t confined to his people. It applies to everyone?
The nurse applied the salve, apologizing with every touch. I stared at the closed door, knowing what I’d have to do after she finished.
I have to tell Calish.
Chapter 22
We were up so late that Calish and I fell into bed, asleep before our heads hit the pillow. It saved us from getting into the details of the day, which I appreciated. When I woke up, I rolled out of bed slowly so as not to wake him. He looked so peaceful when he slept. Knowing there was much to be done, I decided to let him sleep in while I prepared for the day ahead.
Downstairs, I tiptoed through the pack of sleeping children sprawled out in the two front rooms on either side of the staircase. They didn’t want to be separated into the bedrooms, so Jeorge, Calish, and Graken brought all the linens of the house to make beds for them on the floor.
Graken, the always reserved, never kind officer, lay like a cloak draped across an overstuffed chair. With it pushed up against the front door, he became the big, strong protector of wayward children, their own personal guard. I was sure he tried to stay awake and alert, but boredom set in and sleep overcame him.
Graken’s arms were crossed over his chest, and his head hung to the side with his cheek pressed into the back cushion of the chair. A little stream of drool escaped from the corner of his mouth and pooled on the collar of his untucked uniform. He always seemed superhuman to me. It never occurred to me he did normal things, like sleep.
I made my way through the front room and down to the kitchen. Knowing Jeorge had worked nonstop into the early morning, I decided to start breakfast myself. The butler’s pantry, full of ingredients, made
it easy to decide what to prepare. I lit the fire in the kitchen’s stove to warm as I prepared the biscuits. It had been a while since I’d cooked a meal, not that it mattered. It came back to me quickly. If it weren’t for the pain searing up my left arm, I would have gone much faster.
Cooking in such a fine kitchen felt like a dream. Every type of accessory imaginable existed in the rows of drawers and cabinets of the custom room. There were many things I didn’t know how to use. Sharpened looped blades, things on hinges, and cups too small to drink from littered the space. When I found a whisk, still with all its tines and perfectly spaced, I smiled.
Citizens never toss nice ones like these out.
With the oven properly heated, I put the biscuits on the top rack, careful to keep my healing flesh protected from the heat. My family cooked in our fireplace, but I had watched Qarla and Sterle use the oven many times. I hoped I had learned something from it. If I burned breakfast because I didn’t know how to use the stove, then so be it. Cover a brick with gravy, and Marsh would still eat it. Finding a huge bowl, I cracked every egg we had in the house and mixed them up.
The children began to stir in the front room when the third batch of biscuits were baking in the oven. They must have smelled the aroma coming from the kitchen. Thankfully, it was a good one, not a black, smoldering mess.
They weren’t the only ones to notice my accomplishment. “My Lady!” Jeorge ran into the room, horrified by the bowls and ingredients about the counters. “What are you doing?”
“I’m making breakfast,” I answered cheerfully, opening the oven door and using a towel to fan away the hot air billowing out.
He reached out to move me, pausing only when he saw the bandage extending from my wrist to my shoulder. “Please, let me.” He smiled awkwardly, taking up padded square cloths in each hand. I stepped aside, thinking those would be easier to handle a hot sheet with than the towel I intended to use.
“I wish you would have woken me. A lady of your status is not made for such work.” He removed the finished biscuits, knocking the oven door closed with his hip.
“I am no better than anyone else. Besides, I wanted to do this. If you want to help, that’s fine, but I’m not going to sit and supervise.”
Jeorge groaned. “As you wish, my Lady.”
While the first pan of eggs cooked, I prepared a plate for Graken. I loaded it with some dried fruit and a warm biscuit, and when the eggs were done, I put a good-sized scoop in the space remaining. Not sure how he would wake, I gently patted him on the shoulder and stood back.
He smacked his lips and, with his eyes still closed, wiped the drool from his face. “What?” He forced his eyes open. When he realized where he was, he sat up quickly and straightened his shirt. “Forgive me.” He cleared his throat. “I must have dozed off.”
“It was a long night,” I excused him. “Here, I brought you something.”
“That’s not necessary.” He took a deep breath and restored himself to his regular posture.
“I have a feeling you didn’t eat last night, and if you’re going to protect us properly, you need to maintain your energy. I will not tolerate a Chief of Security who suffers from malnutrition.”
Graken grunted, but he forfeited an argument and took the plate reluctantly.
“You’re welcome.” I suppressed a smile. “Everyone else, come get breakfast when you are ready.”
Even with the exceptionally long dining table, we still had to use the table in the kitchen nook past its intended occupancy. Jeorge let me help serve the children. I was certain he only allowed me to because he really did need the assistance. Qarla ran the kitchen, not him. Sterle could have served this number of guests, but Jeorge had trouble tending to one room on his own. When the food had been properly distributed, we stood next to each other, watching the children eat. Jeorge left the curtains closed, but he kept checking the small, curtain-less window above the sink.
“Is there a problem?” I asked him.
“No.” He spun around to face me. “I’m just trying to keep the sun out. It’s hot enough in here already.” He didn’t lie well.
“I appreciate your digression when it comes to matters of our house, Jeorge.”
“Pardon me, my Lady?” He attempted to better hide his anxiety.
“Nothing.” I smiled. “Where will I find the children’s garments?”
“I washed and hung them downstairs. Since the boiler was on most of the night last night, the room kept warm. I’m sure they’re already dry.”
“I’ll help you collect them.”
For once, he didn’t argue. I followed him down the staircase into the underground room. Strung across the basement, the clothes zigzagged back and forth.
“This is how my family dried things during Talium.”
“Some techniques know no status,” Jeorge said, pulling the first shirt from the line. “A good idea is just that, a good idea.”
I removed a faded tunic from where it hung. Although the garment had suffered many rips and tears, each had been repaired with new caramel-brown thread. My thumb ran over the fresh stitching.
All of the tears are mended.
Patches and stitching speckled every garment I saw. Jeorge removed the clothespins quickly, folding whatever he freed before stacking it in a basket to carry upstairs.
I touched a hanging pair of trousers with a patched knee. “Did you repair these?”
Jeorge yanked them off the line. “A few of them were quite shameful. I thought stitching them up would be an improvement. Seeing them hanging here, I realize how badly I failed.” Not attempting to fold them anymore, he pulled the next few down, draping them over his arm.
“Thank you, Jeorge.”
“Don’t. I only made it worse.”
“I think what you meant to say was ‘you’re welcome.’”
“Yes, well, you’re welcome. You should know, we cannot keep these children here, my Lady. It’s not a good idea. Besides, we’re going to run out of food if you continue to feed them.”
I didn’t plan on keeping them here. I didn’t have a plan at all, but his statement raised my suspicion. “Why is it a bad idea?”
“If I told you, you’d think I’d gone insane.”
“Try me,” I said, sitting on the basement steps.
“I don’t want to lose my job, my Lady. With the other two women gone, I would hope you would like to keep me on, to care for the house if nothing else.”
“We have no intention of sending you off. Please tell me, why do you think it’s a bad idea for the children to stay here?”
Jeorge hesitated, but by the tension of his brow, I knew he was desperate to make a confession. “Strange things happen here, things that never used to happen before the disaster.”
“Like what?”
He whispered so low, I barely heard him. “I think the spirits of the dead are here in this house.”
“Can you give me an example?” I asked.
“I can give you several,” he blurted, “like I shut the servants’ door and lock it when I’m home alone, only to find it unlocked and swinging open later.”
“Maybe you just forgot, or the latch didn’t engage.”
“No,” he corrected. “The servants of the other houses note this strange activity, too. In fact, every once in a while, a maid vanishes. The woman two doors down went missing several months ago. Disappeared in the middle of her routine. We convinced ourselves she ran off. But later, they found her belongings stored in the servants’ storage space. She had a loaf of bread, the one her master awarded her, there too. Why would she take leave and not bring food?”
I shrugged.
“And there are other things. Once, I had just arrived at the house, and my tea sat prepared and waiting on the edge of the counter exactly the way I like it! Or a task I had planned to do is suddenly completed, but no one else is here. I’ve even found bruises on my wrists I cannot explain,” he said frantically. “And then there’s the lashings.”
/>
“Lashings?”
“Yes, my Lady. Welts appear on my back for no apparent reason.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Forgive me, I know how it sounds…”
I felt sorry for him. He thought himself haunted, but I knew the truth. The stretches of missing time were Noran’s doing. He charmed Jeorge but did a poor job of it. One or two mistakes like that, and an unsuspecting person would blame themselves for being absentminded. After repeated events, anyone would seek an explanation.
Lark once told me he couldn’t pluck out random pieces within a memory. “I can only erase a period of time and replace it with a suggestion.”
Jeorge would have forgotten what he already accomplished, and unless Noran suggested the task had been done, the servant would never remember completing it. A perfect example would be the tea on the counter. Of course, it was prepared as he liked it; he made it himself before Noran made him forget.
“I know it sounds crazy. These children cannot be around with this sort of phenomenon happening.”
“Jeorge, might there be another plausible explanation?”
“Are you accusing me of losing my mind?” he defended himself. “Because if you are, let me tell you the other servants report the same thing. We talk, you know.”
“I meant no such thing. Let me rephrase my statement; do you think someone could be causing your memory to lapse on purpose?”
He gasped. “You think someone is drugging us?”
“No. I mean, possibly,” I paused, “or maybe someone has a special talent or gift to, I don’t know, make you forget full sections of your day?”
His face twisted. “A Charmer?”
I shrugged.
His face softened with a gentle grin. “You are innocent, aren’t you, my Lady? That’s just a legend; it doesn’t exist. It’s a bunch of stories we tell our children, so they don’t lose the wonder and excitement for the world around them. Unfortunately, we’re all made the same. There is no one here to rescue us from reality, dear. They’re only pleasant distractions, nothing more than tales.”
“And spirits aren’t?”
Jeorge shifted nervously.
Scavenger Girl: Season of Toridia Page 25
