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I almost say Shenya and Nerith, and perhaps Bede, my maid—but then I stop myself, because an idea sparks in my mind. A strategy, a scheme. Another loophole, one that the King didn’t see.
“I want to speak to them face to face,” I say. “Otherwise they may not choose to come with me.”
The guard hesitates, but his companion says, “The concubines are having luncheon in the garden, I believe. It’s as convenient a place as any. And this will be a good chance to communicate the King’s message about what happens to intractable whores.”
“Fine,” the other concedes.
They march me through the House. As we pass through one hallway, I notice Bede shrinking against the wall, her eyes wide and tortured as the soldiers escort me past her. I give a little jerk of my head, an indication for her to follow us. I hope she has the courage to follow, but I don’t dare look behind to see if she understood my silent message.
The guards and I burst through the doors into the sunlit garden, onto the terrace where beautifully-clad women with perfectly coiffed hair sit at small tables, daintily plucking at the scanty fare they’re allowed to consume.
Faces turn toward me. Eyes widen beneath coal-black lashes, lips part in surprise or tighten with suppressed emotion.
I almost smile, because I see what I was looking for in all those faces. There are a few things in this world that can summon and unite all women of every age, color, and background—and the brutal abuse of a cruel man is one of them.
For all his experience with war, control, and aggressive political tactics, the King is laughably inept in one area.
He does not understand women.
I step forward, arms spread. I am naked and bruised but I am not cowed—not one bit.
“My name is Juliette. I lied to His Majesty,” I say simply, clearly. “I’m being sent away in disgrace, but the King, in his mercy, has decreed that I may take my friends with me. They will be stripped as well and sent out naked from the House of Bounty, with no possessions, not even the clothes on their backs. But we have the King’s word that we may pass into the city unharmed. So I am here to ask my friends if they will stand up, right now, and come with me into the city, so that all may see the evidence of His Majesty’s great mercy.”
The guards on either side of me stir uncomfortably, and one of them starts to speak, but he seems unsure what to say. After all, I merely relayed the King’s message.
“Will my friends stand,” I repeat, “and will they come with me?”
Silence hovers like the glimmering sunlight. The concubines on the terrace do not move—it’s as if the King has transmuted them himself, from flesh into stone. Or perhaps they have transformed themselves, for their own protection.
Just as I’m about to give up hope, a metal chair scrapes on the stone pavers.
Shenya rises. Her lips are trembling, but her voice is clear. “I am your friend, Juliette. I will come with you.”
She slides the light gown she’s wearing off her shoulders, lets it slip to the ground. Her corset comes off next, and her underwear.
With hiss of fierce breath, Nerith leaps up too. “I am your friend, Juliette” she says, her gaze meeting mine. “I’ll come with you.” But on the last few words, her glance veers to Shenya. She strips quickly, tearing off her clothing, baring her long, gorgeous body.
“Very well.” One of the guards at my side clears his throat. “Let’s go—”
But two more chairs grate across the pavers, and two more women rise. “We are also friends of Juliette. We are going with her.”
“Wait a moment,” exclaims the guard. “That’s not—”
But he’s too late. A smile spreads over my face and warmth surges in my heart as more women rise, one after another, shedding the finery of the King and stepping forward in just their skin—skin of all colors and kinds, sleek and lumpy, scarred and smooth, freckled and flawless.
“I’m a friend of Juliette.”
“Juliette and I are friends.”
“I’m leaving with my friend.”
When Rupert said “friends,” he meant Shenya, and perhaps Nerith. And that’s what the King assumed as well. Those two lonely men could not imagine the joint power of a group of women, the sisterhood that can form through shared trauma, within the span of a few days or a few moments.
I’m giving these women a choice. A chance. And they’re taking it.
There’s only a handful of guards nearby, and none of them seem to know what to do as dozens of women strip naked and step out of their discarded silks and satin. Jewels rain onto the pavers, pins fly from unbound hair. Nerith pitches her shoes into a hedge, and several others follow her example.
“What have you done?” exclaims one of the guards beside me, grabbing my arm.
