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But of course I know I can’t invite Terry to join me, so I’m quick to take one bite of everything on the plate (thinly sliced potatoes with a sprinkling of some white sour cheese crumbs, herb-covered meat strips that are still bleeding in the middle, and peculiar sweet-yet-bitter blue vegetables that grow on the willow trees at the rear of the castle).
I set my fork down on the table—the sign that I’m finished with it.
Archer trades my abandoned meal for dessert.
That is a struggle to leave mostly untouched. It’s a favourite of mine—the sweetly salted and steamed pudding, layered in a creamy sauce. My mouth is flooded with saliva before I even take a bite. And I fast indulge myself with another two mouthfuls before I force myself to set down my spoon.
With that, dinner is over in the Hall and I stand up from my chair.
The butler rounds on me, his hands clasped behind his back, chin up but eyes downcast, and he asks, “Would you like to move onto the parlour room, Miss April?”
My cheeks heat at the strangeness of it all. I shake my head and murmur a ‘no’ before I leave the Hall and head straight back to my room.
I find that the washtub is ready for me. Sira must have come and gone while I ate. The ivory marble tub is half-full of warm water, smeared with bubbles, and there are all sorts of strange tools laid out on a roller-table pushed up to the washtub’s side.
I finger through the items for a moment, recognising a rough bar of soap that smells of nuts and sugar, a silver blade-like tool that I have seen my father use on his chin-hair before, a toothbrush and crushed mint leaves, and even a crystal glass of that putrid amber liquid that the prince sometimes drinks in the parlour room.
With a hum, I strip down to the nude and climb into the washtub. The heat of the water, silky against my skin, draws out an ‘ahh’ sound from my lips as I sink into it.
For a while, I just simmer in the water. My eyes drift shut and, arms flopped over the edges, I rest my chin on the popping bubbles. It tickles me, bringing a smile to my lips. Maybe this new role isn’t such a bad one. Sure, the prince has taken some things away from me—visiting the kitchens, for one—but it sure does come with perks.
As the water starts to cool, I decide I can’t relax any longer, and turn to the tools. I pluck a coarse brush from the little table and wet it before I run the soap bar over the rough bristles. It foams up nicely. With it, I attack my skin. Every bit of it, until I’m scrubbed raw and pink.
The prince clearly wants me clean for this Quiet. As clean as I can possibly get. And hairless, too, apparently—my eyes land on the blade. A razor, my dad called it.
I’ve never used one before. Tempted to ring the service bell and get some help with it. But that’s a humiliating thought, and I shake it out of my head before it can even brew properly.
Taking the razor, I sling my leg over the washtub’s edge and eye the hairs there. My colour is fair, so it’s difficult to see the little hairs intruding on my skin. I reach out with my free, soapy hand and run it over my leg. I do feel them, though they are for the most part invisible.
Letting out a harsh breath that puffs out my cheeks, I lather up some soap on my leg before I reach down with the razor. I hesitate for a cautious heartbeat.
Then I press the blade to my soapy flesh and force it to gently glide all the way up past my knee. I doubt I have to do my thighs, since the hair doesn’t stretch that far up.
It takes some time just to razor my legs, and I’m still unfinished with the blade. There’s still my underarms to shave and—the worst one—my nether area ... that’s the most difficult to do, too. I have to stand up in the tub and hike my leg up at an awkward angle.
Once I’m finished, my flesh is angry with me. Some red specks of blood have appeared, but I make them vanish when I climb out of the water and run a soothing lotion from the table all over my body.
Then the gold bell rings, and startles me so much that I drop the lotion bottle.
Naked behind the partition, I stare at the bell above my bed with wide eyes.
The prince is back ... and I’m not in his bedchamber waiting for him, like his letter to me demanded.
Sucking in a sharp breath of fear, I clamber for my white underdress and throw it on. No time for the rest of it, I scramble bare-foot out of the room and rush through the castle to the prince’s bedchamber. It’s a far race, and I take even longer through the slave’s corridors. By the time I reach the door, I’m out of breath.
Taking a moment to catch my breath, I run my hands over the wrinkles of my underdress. It’s a bit see-through, but I wonder if the prince will actually like that, rather than see it as an inconvenience.
Once I’m steadied, I nod to myself as if to flood encouragement through my worried body, then open the door.
I slip inside, then push past the drapes.
I spot him on the bed, sat on its edge, his hands gripping onto his thighs too tightly. He turns his head to me.
The prince’s gaze latches onto me, knocking the breath right out of my chest. A blizzard rages in his cool eyes, dark lashes lowered over them, casting shadows over his face, and ... he doesn’t looked all too pleased with me.
“I was bathing,” I whisper, my voice as shaky as the hands I stretch out at my sides. “I ... I haven’t used a razor before, so I took longer than I meant to and...”
My excuses fail me as his lashes lower even more, narrowing his eyes on me.
