Imogen’s bright giggle reaches me.
“The sisters will explain more the day of,” says Brigit. “Or perhaps Lady Elodie will be kind enough to elaborate. Our job was to get you here.”
My retinue turns down a shadowy hallway that extends toward one corner of the building and ends in a set of imposing wooden doors.
Anxiety coils a tight knot in my chest. I pause to take a steadying breath. Heart pounding, I start down the dim hallway in the handmaidens’ wake.
Together, they heft one of the doors open. “At your request, High Priestess,” says Brigit. “Apologies for your wait. It took a while to track her down.”
My fingers worry at a loose thread on my cloak. Forcing my hands to stillness, I step across the threshold and into the room’s enveloping warmth.
“It’s no matter,” says the priestess I’ve been delivered to with such urgency, her voice low and slightly familiar. “Thank you for fetching her on such short notice.”
My eyes glued to the fire popping in a polished copper bowl, I feel like a high-priority parcel. Heat surges into my cheeks.
Oh, no. Am I a blusher?
Terrific…
Brigit brushes my arm before steering Imogen away. “We’ll be just outside the door.”
“Nice to meet you!” Imogen gives a little wave, her other hand cradled in Brigit’s.
I echo the sentiment, watching them leave. The heavy door swings shut. Turning, I reluctantly lift my gaze.
For shit’s sake.“You,” I say and glance around, wondering if this is someone’s idea of a joke.
The same gorgeous woman from the gods-be-damned greenhouse stands in the center of her apparent receiving room. And here I am, red-faced and looking like I slept in my clothes.
“Yes. Me.” Those magnetic hazel eyes assess me coolly. In combination with her medium bronze skin, full lips, and raven-black braid, she’s more magnificent and slightly less hostile than I remember.
One thought runs through my mind, stark and irrefutable:all right, so I’m attracted to women. This one in particular, it seems.
This is highly inconvenient.
Suddenly overheating, I fidget in my cloak, tugging at the clasp.
“If you’re uncomfortable, I can take that.”
My skin tingles at the soft brush of her fingertips when I hand her the garment.
“Sit.” With her free hand, she indicates two chairs across from a settee. An etched cuff bracelet glints at her wrist. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thank you.” Unable to peel my eyes from her, I sink down on one of the chairs.
“Are you sleeping all right?”
“As well as I can.”
“Good.” When she turns to set my cloak aside, the unnerving pull between us enters my awareness again. “Keeping food down?”
I swallow, bewildered. “Yes.”
“We’re at a high altitude, so you’ll need to drink plenty of water until you adjust.” She lowers herself to the adjacent chair. “How are the headaches?”
I must have been in a state of shock yesterday not to notice the heavy amount of jewelry she wears. Silver rings accent almost all of her fingers, including two slim bands on her pinky—one snugged above her second knuckle. A band of polished hematite encircles her thumb.
Multiple silver earrings adorn each ear, including tiny hoops through the upper cartilage. Small, tunnel-shaped wooden plugs stretch her lobes, and leaf pendants dangle from silver wire threaded through their centers.
