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He is a eunuch, right? Like all the other men who work in the House of Bounty. There’s no way I felt what I thought I felt. I’m dizzy and disconsolate, and the contact was so brief… it must have been his hipbone or his belt or something.
“Tomorrow, when they take you for testing, tell them these four things.” He peers at me. “You listening?”
“Yes.” I force myself to focus on his words instead of speculating about his genitals.
“They’ll demand a demonstration of your ability. Tell them that firstly, you need to be alone to perform the magic. Tell them that exercising your ability drains your energy, and that you must eat frequent, hearty meals to replenish it. Third, request that a servant be posted at the door to attend your needs and provide you with food. And lastly, tell them you need time. A day and a night.”
“What good will that do?” I plop onto the bed. “I won’t be able to accomplish anything, no matter how much time and privacy they give me.”
“Just do as I say.”
I frown at him. “You’re a servant. You can’t help me. Even if you managed to steal a roomful of gold and swap it out with the straw somehow…”
“You think I’d steal treasure for you?” He chuckles. “Not likely.” He saunters to the door. “Good night, Juliette.”
“Wait,” I exclaim as he’s leaving. “How did you know my name?”
But he has already closed the door.
What a strange man, and what a strange visit! I’m surprised no one overheard our conversation and came to investigate the presence of a male in the chamber of a potential bride. He said something about the rooms being soundproof, and when I think about it, I haven’t heard a sound from the hallway or the other chambers since I was brought here. Maybe he’s right, and the concubines’ suites have fortified walls to muffle sound. It would make sense, I suppose. I’m sure many loud sounds occur in this place, and it might cause trouble or distress if everyone could overhear the things that go on.
If the room is soundproof, my visitor didn’t come in because he passed by and heard me crying. He already knew where I was—he came to see me on purpose. He knew my name. Maybe, as a servant of the House, he glimpsed the list of prospective brides and took an interest in me. Or maybe…
Maybe my test has already begun. Maybe he’s not just a member of the house staff, but someone appointed to gain my confidence and elicit the truth.
And I told him my secret.
I sink my face into my hands. Why, why did I confide in him? Why did he seem familiar? Why can I still feel the heat of his arms, the strength of his body as it upheld mine?
I roll over, grabbing one of the pillows and wadding it up under my head. The stress of his visit has tipped me over the edge into exhaustion, and I think I can sleep now. I’m almost sure I can.
And I do, but it’s a restless sleep, threaded with dreams of a scruffy, blue-eyed man, his body bare and powerful, his limbs twined with threads of glimmering gold.
6
I’m used to rising early—I’m a baker. And I don’t mind waking early when it’s on my terms, for the purposes of my business. But being woken early by a sour-looking maid, after the traumatic day I had yesterday—it’s unpleasant to say the least.
After I dispatch my scanty breakfast of toast and fruit, the maid rakes my scalp roughly with a comb and proceeds to braid my hair in a tight, elaborate coiffure, despite my protests that I can prepare myself for the day. She slaps a corset around me as well, and spends several minutes straining at the laces until my ribs twinge with pain. When I voice a protest, the maid only jerks the corset tighter, so I shut up.
She helps me into a garnet-colored dress, a shade of red that perfectly complements my coloring. The neckline arches over my breasts, dipping low between them, and the sleeves encircle my upper arms, leaving my round shoulders bare. When she buttons the back, I find I can breathe well enough, if I’m careful about how I stand and sit. I can’t take deep breaths, though, which makes me panic a little. I try not to think about the limits on my air intake, and after a while my pulse slows down to a reasonable rate.
Next the maid paints my face copiously with makeup. She’s doing her job, I suppose, but in the most vindictive way possible. Maybe Shenya is right… maybe she was a concubine of the former King, and she’s angry about being relegated to this lesser role.
I can’t see any way to confirm the suspicion, other than asking. “Were you a royal concubine once?”
She grips my chin more tightly than necessary and paints my lips crimson with her fingertip.
“So it’s true… you were. What’s your name?”
She wipes the excess lip paint from her finger onto a cloth.
“Look, I don’t want to be here,” I continue. “We’re both trapped, both being forced into roles we don’t want. Maybe we can help each other. Or at least talk sometimes.”
She pauses, and for a moment our gazes lock.
She’s in her mid-forties, I would guess. Her eyes are hazel, fringed by thick lashes… lovely, mournful eyes stricken through with anger. Her black hair is mostly covered by a cap, and she wears no makeup. Despite her dour expression, there’s a haunting beauty about her.
She opens her full lips, stretching them wide until I can see the glistening stump in her mouth.
