“Thank you, Coira.” Trulie moved carefully through the unknown space with both hands extended. Karma’s firm weight against her leg helped keep her on course. “And it’s just Trulie. Remember?”
“Ah now, mistress. Ye will have Steward and Cook switching me arse with a stick if I dinna show ye proper respect.” The fuchsia cloud ping-ponged back to Trulie and took hold of both her hands. “Here now. Allow me to lead ye to the settee. Ye must sit and enjoy Cook’s fine biscuits and mead whilst I undo yer strange wee bag.”
Trulie eased down, expecting another hard bench, but was pleasantly surprised by the softness of a plush cushion. She ran her fingertips across the seat. A knobby weave. Smooth silkiness interlaced with rough knotted threads. The cushions reminded her of Granny’s needlepoint and tapestry pillows.
“Hold out yer hands, m’lady, and I shall hand ye the cup.” Coira’s cotton-candy-pink aura hovered patiently in front of Trulie.
“I will make you a deal.” Trulie held up both hands. “When it is just you and me in the room, call me Trulie.” Having a personal servant didn’t feel quite right, but Trulie gladly welcomed a friend and confidante to help her adapt to this strange new world.
“Make ... a ... deal.” Coira repeated the phrase as though not entirely sure of its meaning. “Is that the same sort of thing as an agreement ... or perhaps a pact?”
“Yes.” Trulie nodded as Coira placed a heavy metal cup between her hands. “We will make a pact that whenever we are alone, you have permission to call me Trulie. You can do that and not get into any trouble with the rest of the household—right?”
“Aye, m’lady ... er, Trulie.” Coira’s aura bounced down, then up again in what had to have been a curtsy.
The cloud of pink floated a bit to the right as Trulie hesitantly sipped what smelled like cloyingly sweet wine. She held the liquid on her tongue and slowly breathed in, savoring the unusual flavor. The drink wasn’t like any wine she had ever had before, and if she remembered Granny’s tales of the past correctly, the unusual twang deepening the flavor of the fermented, fruity liquid had to be honey. Trulie swallowed and quietly smacked her lips. She had no tolerance for alcohol, but this didn’t taste strong at all. Not bad.
An amused snort reminded Trulie that Coira was still very much in the room.
“What?”
“Ye look like Cook when she tastes the soup to see if more salt is needed. Have ye never tasted mead afore?” Coira chuckled and flitted around the room with soft thuds and pats that told Trulie that the maid was still busily setting everything in order while they talked.
“No. I think this is my first taste of honey wine.” Trulie took another sip, savoring the light alcoholic warmth trickling down her throat. The sound of nylon cloth being frantically handled, then a dull thud followed by a word hissed out in a language Trulie didn’t understand, pulled her attention away from the mead. “Do you need some help with that zipper? Sometimes it sticks if you don’t hold it straight while you’re trying to undo it.”
Coira’s hot-pink aura had deepened to a fiery red. “I am afraid I dinna ken what ye mean, m’lady.” Coira’s voice was strained, as though she was ready to spit nails.
Trulie carefully rose from the bench. Red aura and strained voice. Apparently, the sticky zipper had won this round with Coira. Trulie held out the cup of mead with one hand and reached with the other. “Here. Take this and I’ll open the bag. I’m used to it being ornery.”
“Where are ye from, mistress? Yer grandmother didna see fit to tell me, and for the life of me, I barely understand what ye are saying half the time. I ken I am not a dull-witted lass, but lore a mercy, I wonder at the emptiness of me own head whenever ye speak.”
There was that wordmistressagain. Apparently, Coira’s manners were so deeply ingrained that it was going to take a bit to overcome them. She decided to let it pass.
“Uhm ...” Trulie patted the bag until she found the silk rope attached to the pull of the main zipper. She stretched it taut between her hands and yanked with no success. Crap on a cracker. The silly thing was really stuck this time. She pulled it closed and jerked again as a suitably vague answer to Coira’s question finally came to her. “I am from a land quite far from here. Really far. Kind of off to the southwest.” Coira seemed genuinely nice, but best ease her into the complicated world of the Sinclair family until Trulie knew her better.
“I see,” Coira replied in a tone that clearly said she didn’t see at all.
With a successfulwhirrupof the heavy zipper, Trulie pulled open the backpack. Before she could pull free any of the contents, Coira gently pushed her aside. “Nay, m’lady. ‘Tis my job to set yer things in order.”
At Trulie’s exasperated huff, Coira giggled and carefully turned Trulie, then helped her sit on the edge of the bed. “What I meant to say is, nay, Trulie. ’Tis my duty to stick my wee nose through all yer things so I can see all yer treasures.”
Trulie relaxed, scooted back on the bed, and assumed her favorite cross-legged position. Maybe there was hope for a friendship with Coira, after all.
“Oh ... my ... heavens.” Coira’s tone echoed with wonder.
“What?” Damning her lost sight, Trulie sat taller. All she could see was another flashing shade shift in the color of Coira’s aura.
“What ...” Coira’s voice stalled out as though the girl had suddenly forgotten how to speak. Finally, she took Trulie’s hand up and pressed a wadded jumble of silk and lace into it. “What is ... where ... how exactly do ye wear ...these.”
Trulie fingered through the bundle. Lace. Silk. Ribbon. Recognition finally registered. Trulie grinned. She held between her hands what she affectionately called her power package. Be it by intention or by chance, whenever she wore this particular set of black thong panties and show-off-the-girls bra, her confidence soared and she succeeded at whatever she tried. They always brought her good karma. “It is my favorite set of bra and panties. There is more lingerie stuffed in those outside pockets, but this set and the red set I am wearing are my favorites. They bring me luck.”
The satiny articles were slowly pulled out of her hands. Trulie heard a sharp intake of breath and something muttered so low that she leaned forward to try to hear it. “What did you say, Coira?”
The maid cleared her throat with a nervous cough. “These bits of lace and ribbon will bring ye a great deal more than luck if the chieftain sees ye wearin’ them.”
Trulie did her best to ignore the rising heat of her cheeks. Why would Coira say such a thing? “I am not exactly going to be parading around the keep in my underwear. I’m sure Chieftain MacKenna won’t get a viewing of my power package. He is much too busy running the clan to be troubled by a couple of new houseguests ... and my favorite underwear.”
“Hmm,” was Coira’s only response.
