Page 57

“No,” he said. “I’ll sleep on the floor when you sleep.”

She blinked, once. “Very well. I shall bathe, then.”

“It is not yet midday.”

“What else am I to do?” she called over her shoulder, already making for the bathroom. “Gouge my eyes out?”

Lysander didn’t reply.

“But I would like fresh clothes,” she added.

His eyes narrowed. “Fine. I’ll be right back.”

With his absence, Idonea pumped water into the tub and gathered up the scented soap and wash cloth. She’d take her time. Needed the time to think.

The water was warm, and she savoured the scent of lavender. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

Lysander’s footsteps marked his return, though he never came near the bathroom. The water clung to her like a second skin, letting the heat and silence steep into her bones.

Idonea stayed until her fingertips were wrinkled. She tied the towel over herself, put her glasses back on, and padded barefoot to the bed.

The clothes laid out for her stopped her mid-step.

Black. Everything black. A corset of underbust leather, a high-neck blouse of charcoal silk, fleece-lined leggings, and a skirt of heavy velvet layered over wool, short in front, dramatic behind.

Who had worn these before me? The thought slithered through her mind, unwelcome.

She dressed, half-expecting to feel watched.

Idonea returned to a seat at the table. “What does the mother think?”

Lysander took in her damp curls. “Once they turn fourteen, their parents are sent on their way.”

“The Order is that desperate for control.” She shook her head.

They both lapsed into silence.

“There is nothing worse than inactivity,” she said eventually.

“We can play draughts,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “There is a playing board in here?”

He moved to a cabinet close by. Admittedly, Idonea hadn’t really searched that hard. He pulled out a wooden container that opened to the draughts board, and a velvet bag containing the black and white playing pieces. She let him set the game up.

“You’ve done this before,” she said.

“Many nights are long,” he replied, setting the white pieces before her.

She glanced at the unguarded door.

“I can move faster, witchling,” he said.

A threat or a promise, she wasn’t sure.

She slid a piece forward with deliberate precision. “Then you’ll have to prove it.”

Lysander moved his counter in silence, gaze flicking between the board and her face. Each movement was precise, calculated, as if every gesture mattered.