Ahhhhh. And a clearer picture began to paint itself. My eyes shifted towards the woman, who’d been stealing surreptitious glances at me when she thought I wasn’t looking.
Something shifted in the woman’s eyes, her countenance, her gaze sliding away from me unhurriedly at that last run. “Don’t you boys have chores and things to do?” Dorothy inquired chidingly, as if yet again speaking to children.
Respect commanded respect, but unchecked mothering by a professional motherer, respect or not, led to smother mothering. Doro-thy, if left unchecked, would rule beast-dom. The only thing holding the woman back was probably her equally as commanding, bossy mates.
I couldn’t see myself really connecting with the woman—she was like Joanie times a bajillion. Though Joanie was more likely to smother someone with a pillow…
“Fellas?” Dorothy prompted.
The ‘fellas’ had grown wandering eyes, zoning out at some point during my internal ramblings and whatever it was Dorothy might’ve been saying whilst I was lost in said La La land, a set of beastly peepers glued to the tub and the contents therein.
Who knew I’d be so popular in beast town? Certainly not me, that was for sure.
Never would I have thought I’d ever shun a Miss Popularity contest. Until now.
“Boys.” Dorothy cleared her throat overloud, immediately drawing both males’ attention. “I got things to do, same as you all.” Jerking her chin to the door, she hooked her thumb at it, giving them each a meaningful look. “Miss, uh…” Dorothy paused to glance at me.
“Rosalinda,” I supplied, because it’s not weird to converse while naked in a vat of scented water like we’re out to Sunday brunch with two big ol’ beasties hanging out sneaking peeks. Nope, not awkward at all.
“Right.” She offered me a friendly smile, dusting her hands off as she backed away from the bed, collecting used bits of gauze-like strips of material and soiled cloths as she went, and gave a short nod. “Rosalinda would probably like to have herself her bath, in private, unencumbered.” Her gaze speared each male tellingly, shrewdly. “And you can rest assured I’ll assist her, should she need it,” she got out before either beast could protest.
“The hand-speak. Who say the words for Tokre?” Zhuii demanded, though his words were tempered. It was still hard for him to admit he knew how to sign. Was it considered so odd to these beasts? Worth a shunning different? “And Tokre-”
“And Rosie,” Dorothy interrupted, giving the orange-eyed beastie a cutting look, “have been plodding along just fine so far without words. I’m sure they can manage for a little while longer.” To Noyel she waved her hand, walking over to her basket on the table to rummage through until she unearthed a small paring knife. “Tokre’s gonna be alright. Did a fine job patching him up, son. Your pa is mighty proud of you. They all are.”
“Coulda fooled me,” Noyel said on a grumble. He looked awfully pleased for someone who said it with such a growl in his throat.
Dorothy picked up a dark colored, gold speckled rock from the small basket Tokre liked to keep on the middle of the table. It was the fat one Tokre used like a soapstone. Lifting it up, she began sharpening her knife, swiping the blade across it.
“For the stitches,” she explained at my sudden, wide-eyed look. “He really is healing wonderfully. Probably won’t need any more of that tea, if I’ve got it right.”
Two gruff mumbles started up, sending the both of us glancing up sharply.
When they looked like they still might kick up a fuss, she let off a whistle. “Lukar, darling, could use your help in here right quick!”
Noyel cursed under his breath, and Zhuii growled. They were both moving before the door had even opened.
“Zhuii be back,” the beast promised.
“Noyel, too,” the tall beast-healer-in-training seconded.
“Really wish you’d talk like I done taught you,” Dorothy muttered under her breath, her voice low, lips barely moving as she spoke.
Noyel paused and Dorothy smiled. “I said, my, you two go on and have fun now! Doing your man things.”
“Lo denaii,” the duo corrected.
Though Dorothy smiled and nodded, I could see it, the barely contained flinch at that word. What was her deal with what they called themselves, my inner sleuth questioned. Why would it bug her so?
“And now you’re going, going, gone!” Dorothy sang, waving wildly, mockingly, grinning like a loon the entire time as the males finally took their leave.
The door shut with a clattering bang, deep grumbling and unhappy noises following.
Dorothy waited until what felt like an hour—but was probably five minutes—had passed before she turned to me. “I heard one of the other brides saying that. I’ve always wanted to try it out! All these newfangled phrases the new ladies teach us, I love it.”
The gleam in her eyes hinted at her teasing nature, but then she paused, frowning suddenly. Biting at her lip, her shoulders hunched slightly. “I, ah, I did use that properly, didn’t I?”
“Better than I’d have expected,” I said easily.
“Good.” Dorothy’s cheeky grin was back, her apple cheeks pinkening slightly. “I never know if I’m saying those things right.” She turned with her newly sharpened knife to walk back to Tokre’s bedside, presumably to remove his stitches, talking all the while. “We get books sometimes, on the males’ trips through the portals—odds and ends from the other realm, you know?”
No, but I was beginning to.
“They don’t take you with them?” I asked tentatively, trying to unobtrusively fish. “On these journeys?”
Dorothy turned from her work, her back shielding my squeamish butt from her stitch removal job. My smile was small and I really wasn’t feeling it. I had no clue if it was painfully obvious it was a bullshitter’s smile or not.
“Hunts,” she said after a lengthy pause, then turned back to her task at hand. “And heavens no. Too dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“Mm. What if the portal closed and we ended up stuck? For who knows how long! Oh, I shudder to even think.”
“You mean they can’t control it? The, uh, the portal transport deal-y things?”
“Control? If those boys could control it the blasted thing would remain open like one of those, what was it the girls called it? A mini-mart?”
I blinked at that. “You don’t know what a mini-mart is?”
Dorothy gave a slow nod. “I think I know what they are, unless I understood wrong, but, no. I’ve never seen one in person, but one of the ladies drew us a picture of one in the dirt. Those mini-stores she talked of, it was after my time.”
“Uh…”
At my blank stare she laughed. “Time moves slower on the furry side.”
That information had my tummy dipping drastically. “H-h-h-how s-s-slow?”
“Haven’t quite got it down to an art, a science, whatever the phrase you’d like to insert here, slow enough I can confide Mitsy and Bitsy, they’re twins, you’ll meet them eventually, were shucked clean off of their Pa’s covered wagon, and neither looks a day over-”
“Oh god.” Forget drastic tummy dips, I just might hurl. My back slumped heavily against the thick wooden tub and my eyes started to burn.
Trying to keep my breathing nice and even, I couldn’t help the way my heart pounded in my chest and my ears started to throb.
“Joanie,” I said on a whimper.
She turned at my whimper, her eyes widening at the look on my face. Dorothy set her knife down on the table and walked to the basin on the fish gutting counter to wash and dry her hands.
Without a word, Dorothy came up behind me, picking up a small bowl, and with a gentle prod to my shoulder, had me lean forward so she could begin to wash my hair.
I let her, sitting there in stunned silence.
Should I ever make it back, Joanie might not even be alive anymore. Or ever worse—or, worse as far as Joanie would see it—old. Would she even recognize me? Wou
ld I her? What would she think happened to me?
“This Joanie means a lot to you?” Dorothy asked quietly.
“Family,” I mumbled, holding back a mad case of the sniffles. The sweet scented soap bubbled as she lathered it in my hair—a honeysuckle and vanilla-like sweetness that just proved to make me all the more homesick.
Joanie hated honeysuckle and vanilla. She was strictly a stinky, gag you with cologne-like heavy perfumes kinda gal—or citrus, with the exception of her obsession with the smell of cherry lip gloss—there really was no in-between with her. I kept honeysuckle and vanilla candles—and when I was super desperate and in need of an insta-fix, air freshener—to smell up the place when she’d practically moved into my house with me and wouldn’t take my not so subtle hints for her to skedaddle her ass on back to her place.
“I’m sorry,” Dorothy murmured softly, and she sounded like she meant it.
My nose wrinkled as I fought back the hiccupping sob building in my chest. My eyes burned, and while I could pretend it was just soap getting in my eyes or some other such nonsense, having myself a little red-eyed cry in the comfort of a bucket of water, I didn’t. I held it back, held it all back.
For once, I didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to feel like this, feel anything at all, for that matter. Thankful for once for how utterly exhausted I felt, I squeezed my eyes shut tight and sighed.
“Tired?” Dorothy began rinsing my hair out, her fingers gently untangling the dark, wild mass I call hair as I sat there and dutifully let her. It was nice—kind of strange, yet nice—to just let someone else do something for me for once. To just… be. Even if she was practically a stranger.
I didn’t answer.
Could I just be here, I wondered. Was that even possible?
“Do you miss your family?” My voice was soft and low, questioning.
“This is my family,” the woman said easily. “My mates, my boys, they’re my everything, my home. I love them.” Her hands paused and I could feel her shrug. “These beasts, the women here and all their mated groups, this community, they’re my family, too.”
Right. Okay, but… “I mean your, uh, other family, your family from, uhm, before.”
Her hands resumed, more water was dumped on my head. “Oh, I s’ppose I miss ‘em sometimes. But, lord, it’s been so long and I- Well… I’m no fool, you know. I’m what this book I read calls a realist. I might like to talk fancy and maybe sometimes I sound like I walk around with my head in the clouds, but I’m a sensible woman. My old family, they’re all long gone to ground by now. No use fussing over what could have come and gone or what mighta been. Wasn’t close to the lot of ‘em, to be honest. Probably why I was so easy to pluck up in the first place,” she admitted on a chuckle. “These short, thick legs against my Mosoau. Hooo boy, I didn’t stand a chance.”
Her quiet laughter continued, and I wondered what it must be like, to be that damned happy, that seamlessly content, surrounded by mate hunting horny beasts, trapped in a primitive alternate plane.
Was it wild mushrooms? A pungent tea? An herbal tincture? A magical-happy-rock one simply needed to lick, then tah-dah, instant contentment? And if this was what my life was to be like, where the heck could I get my hands on some?!
Which did beg the question, seeing as I’d only seen her grimace in true, unhindered discomfort when someone mentioned the word Lo denaii.
“Why don’t you like their name?” I asked without thought.
“Who? My Noyel? Oh, pish. Can’t say I’m really truly upset with that. They aren’t the greatest with names, you may have noticed, but oh do they try. I do so love to tease that one.” She gave a small snort and sighed. “Guess there was a smidge of truth to Grieve’s bellyachin’, but lord does that male love to complain. Think he’d go a day without he might up and-”
“I meant the Lo denaii thing.”
“Oh.” Dorothy’s voice lost all of that enthusiasm and inherent laughter, falling flat. “That.”
Wondering if I’d just completely stuck my foot in it with that one, I sat there quietly while she finished up and we lapsed into an awkward, for me, crickets or whatever hoppy creepies they’ve got around these parts, kind of silence.
“I, uh, I think I can- I’ll finish up from here.” Turning, I glanced up to find Dorothy holding the bowl she’d been using to rinse my hair, a towel in her lap. She was seated on two of Tokre’s woven baskets, one stacked on top of the other, staring off at nothing, lost in thought. “Thank you for washing my hair,” I said louder, glancing around for the bar of soap to finish washing.
“Hmm? What?” Dorothy blinked, shaking her head. “Sorry,” she mumbled apologetically, “woolgathering.” Her hand lifted and she spun her finger by the side of her head in a quick, circular motion. “Lost in my head for a bit there. You know, woo-hoo.” She smiled, and though it was wide enough to make her blue eyes crinkle, it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
I wanted to ask my question again but refrained. “The soap?” I piped up, instead.
“Oh, hah, yes.” Dorothy picked up a tawny colored bar of soap, swirls of gold and citrusy oranges swirling throughout. Bits of pink and purple dotted the sweet smelling block, I noticed as I took it, along with the small square of woven cloth, and rubbed my hands all over it, working up a good lather.
“Smells nice,” I commented, trying to turn away just enough I half faced the wall. Newly exhibitionist, I’d never accustom myself to. It just wasn’t me.
“I believe Zhuii made that one. He’s a bit of an oddball, I admit, but a crafty thing, like I’ve been hearing about your mate. Those bars trade for quadruple what a single would at market. The ladies just love it, myself included, and the males, they love to please their ladies. I don’t know what he puts in them, exactly, no one does, but I’ve never smelled anything like it. Can’t replicate it.”
I’d just bet, I thought dryly. Nose crinkling, I leaned in, giving the soaped up, foamy washcloth a deeper sniff. It really was quite pleasant. Of course they loved it, it was like a hint of Earth, of home.
Glancing up, feeling self-conscious and a little squeamish all of a sudden, I got into scrubbing at my skin with gusto. I was thankful Dorothy had backed off, darting away to retrieve her basket while I finished up. Basket handle hanging over one arm, she walked over to the fish counter, where she stayed.
Unhooking a pot from the wall to tote to the long table, pulling some well wrapped chunks of blue meat, a few strange, tube looking bulbous fruit from a cloth sack in her basket, along with some long, green, stringy root looking stems, and proceeded to chop them up and chuck them in the pot.
Food, I thought, as my stomach began to snarl along with me. God, I was starved. Beyond starved. I’d have eaten this sweet smelling soap if I thought it wouldn’t kill me.
“It’s a large bar. That boy is head over furry heels,” Dorothy remarked on a chuckle, as if she simply couldn’t stand the lengthy quiet. “Worth at least two traps and a good hunting knife, maybe two knives, a shepvel, and a spear, I’d reckon.”
“Huh?” I mumbled, my gaze darting towards her to study her profile.
Intent on her task, she didn’t look up, chopping and chucking away. She missed the bewildered look on my face as I sloshed to the other end of the tub to set the soap carefully on her vacated, makeshift basket seat, then wrung out my washing cloth. I was just reaching for the towel sitting on the bench, about to lift it towards my face to towel off when her head lifted and her blue eyes met mine.
“We don’t have stores or a typical market, and with most everything we all share the load, the kills hauled in, the chores. We do a market day, for the craftier folks to trade their wares. It’s an opportunity for the artisans to show off a bit, and those who couldn’t otherwise do the warrior bit they all are so fond of, offers up something productive, a way to earn their own way.”
“Zhuii’s not a warrior-warrior either, like Tokre isn’t, is he?”
“He’s a warrior. He trained under th
e best of them, Veck and Berkr and Detret, my Grieve and Heckes and Mosoau, and all the like. But Zhuii, ah, is, ah… He’s, uhm… Zhuii’s… He’s not exactly… He’s… well-”
“Different?” I ventured, wondering at the cryptic look that crossed her face and her lack of words for once. Stunned stupid, this lady? Must be a big deal, to these Lo denaii at least.
“Zhuii is…” Setting down the small knife she’d been cutting up what looked like the makings of a stew with, she wiped her hands on a piece of cloth on the table the size of a hand towel and, setting it down, threw her hands up. “Zhuii is definitely different, but not for anything he had any say in.”
My eyebrows shot up at that, but then my face scrunched. Because doesn’t that just explain it? Pfft.
“What I mean to say is- That is-” Dorothy, hands on her hips, turned her face up towards the ceiling. “S’ppose I should just start from the beginning.” With a long sigh she gestured for me to go on and get out of the tub while she retrieved a folded bundle, presumably clothes.
By the time I’d carefully hopped out and wrapped the towel around myself as best as I could, she turned to face me. Flapping the material in her hands out, she gave it a good shake and held it up in offering.
Light and dark brown swirled with turquoise painted, dyed, however they’d decorated it, hide of some as of yet known animal made up the roomy looking dress, with small, glass looking beads sewn into the hem adorning the bottom.
“Might be a bit long,” Dorothy warned, “but it’s soft, warm, and my Khri did this one up for me, special, meaning it’s lined, so it should keep you nice and warm.”
“It’s… It’s…” I took it and nodded. “I’ll be sure and give it back as soon as I can,” I assured her, “and thanks.”
Fussing with the hem at the bottom, crumpling it up like a pair of pantyhose, she wiggled it and waited. “Come on now,” she coaxed. “You’ll need help figuring this out, and I don’t bite.”
“Uhm…”
Turning her head to the side, grinning briefly, she closed her eyes, chortling at my reluctance when I hesitated a full minute. “Just like my Bia. So shy. Won’t look, promise.”
Bride of Glass Page 22
