Page 111 of The Faerie Handmaid

Except she didn’t feel like herself. She doubted she would ever feel like herself again. Or perhaps she would feel like a new self. She was no longer a naive country girl. She would no longer be a handmaid. The only way she could become her old self again would be to walk away from the changes her magic had wrought in her, and that would be an affront to the Lady.

After a time, she rose and went to the washbasin, where Loria had thoughtfully provided soap and towels. She washed her face and hands and scrubbed her body. When she felt clean again and had put on a fresh chemise, she sat down at the dressing table to brush her hair before the oval mirror.

She picked up the brush, but she didn’t use it. Instead, she stared in wonder at her reflection. Her fair hair was the same, her curls now falling to her shoulders. Her eyes had not changed. They were the blue of Ilyn in summer, a blue that could darken or brighten depending on her mood. Her freckles still scattered over her nose and cheeks like constellations in the night sky.

But her dimples…

Her dimples were gone.

Morgana came into Braithe’s bedchamber carrying a long black piece of fabric in one hand and a sigil on a thong dangling from the other. She stopped just inside the door, gazing at her former handmaid with wonder. “Braithe,” she said. “Your—your face—”

Braithe was in profile to her, smoothing her bedcovers and setting her pillow neatly at the head of the bed. She didn’t feel comfortable expecting Loria to do those things for her. She turned, her hands linked before her, allowing Morgana to see her whole face. “I know,” she said. “I am reminded of the morning you woke to find yourself so changed.”

Morgana touched the long silver plait that hung over her shoulder to her waist. “I am, too,” she said. “At least your hair has not transformed.”

“No. Not my hair. Still a hopeless tangle.”

“Smile for me.” Braithe, a little ruefully, did. Morgana sighed, her own lips curving with nostalgia. “Ah. I will miss those dimples, but you have become a beautiful woman, Braithe of Camulod. No longer a girl.”

“I feel as if my own skin no longer fits me.”

“The Lady must have great plans for you,” Morgana said. “You longed for magic, and she has endowed you with more than you ever expected.” She held out the swath of linen she carried. “And I have brought you a robe to befit your new status.”

Braithe took the black robe from her. She shook it out and held it up to herself. It was one of Morgana’s own but perfectly hemmed to fit her much shorter legs. She looked up at Morgana and smiled again. “Are you a seamstress now?”

Morgana’s lips twitched. “I am not, nor will I ever be. Loria, on the other hand, is an accomplished needlewoman. You will need other robes, certainly a woolen one for winter, but this is a start. She has promised to see to the others.”

“I wonder what the king and Sir Lancelin will think when they see me.”

“They will become accustomed,” Morgana answered. “As I already have.” She held out the sigil on its long thong. “This is for you as well.”

Braithe stared at the sigil without touching it. “Morgana—I cannot wear that. I am not a priestess, despite what they call me here.”

“In what way are you not a priestess?” Morgana said, still holding the sigil within Braithe’s reach. “What makes a priestess?”

“Well—the convocation, for one thing.”

“And the Blackbird. But he is no longer with us.”

“Priestess Niamh will not like it.”

“She is not here. I am.” Morgana came closer, and although Braithe had not yet put on the black robe, she hung the sigil around her neck. “And the Blackbird was with you yesterday.”

“He was,” Braithe breathed, looking down at the sigil of the Lady now resting against her white chemise. “And the Lady was, too.”

“I have no doubt.”

Braithe pressed her hand against the sigil and looked up into Morgana’s face. “What happens now?”

“Now,” Morgana said, her eyes bright with affection and pride. “You go to work.”

King Mordred and Sir Lancelin greeted Braithe’s new appearance with raised eyebrows and awkward silence. She had come to the king’s council room to sit at Lancelin’s left hand for the audiences of the day, and she felt their startled gazes as she walked to her designated place. Bran was in the room, arranging chairs, and it was he who finally spoke to her.

“Priestess Braithe!” he exclaimed. “How fine you look in your new robe.”

She smoothed its black folds with her hand and smiled at him, grateful he had not mentioned the alteration to her face. It was possible he had not noticed, but he was a man who noticed details. She suspected he was being polite. She said, “Thank you, Bran.”

It seemed neither Lancelin nor Mordred could think of what to say, although Lancelin rose to greet her and didn’t sit again until she had settled in her own chair. Bran said, “There are three of your subjects waiting to see you, my lord.” Mordred nodded, averting his eyes in an attempt not to stare at Braithe.