She whirls around. “What are you doing? Get up.” It is not my arm she reaches for. Rather, her fingers tangle in my long black hair. The pain drags a yelp from me. I stumble to my feet, then overbalance and go down again.
She all but drags me into the kitchen, where an oil lamp sputters. The wide bay window frames the star-studded night. Faded, floral-printed wallpaper peels in long strips from the walls, revealing the white plaster beneath.
“I’m s-s-sorry, my lady,” I manage, voice strained. “It w-was a moment of w-w-w-weakness, but it will not happen again, I p-promise you—”
“What are you talking about, stupid girl?” She releases me. “I’ve a very important client due to arrive here within the hour. Put on a pot of tea and gather refreshments. Is the sitting room in order?”
My mouth snaps shut. So this is unrelated to last night’s disobedience? “Y-yes, m-my lady. I d-d-dusted—”
Lady Clarisse’s glare is potent enough to melt the skin off a lesser creature. “Why is it so difficult for you to speak without stumbling over your own tongue? Hurry up and get dressed. We must look presentable for our guest. I dare say a prince would not appreciate clutter.”
I startle. “Prince?”
She turns toward the old brass mirror hanging from the wall and smooths her palms across her cheeks. “That is what I said.” Then she scowls, noting a blemish near her chin. Due to the beauty teas she consumes weekly, one would never know Lady Clarisse possesses a brutal scar extending from chin to temple. Her attempts to erase thismark have led to an obsession with her appearance. She does not speak of it, and I know better than to ask.
My employer drops her arms with a sound of frustration before spotting my reflection in the mirror. “Why are you still standing there?” she bites. “Get dressed.” Then she disappears into the workshop, likely to take an extra dose of beauty tea.
Beyond the window, a sickle moon digs its lower point into the canopy of trees that shades the road into town. Dawn is still hours off. What could be so important that a client would insist on meeting at an hour so late?
I return to the second floor and cloister myself in my room. Technically, it is a broom cupboard, only large enough for a cot and the small chest at its foot. When Lady Clarisse bought the estate, she claimed Nan’s bedroom and forced me from mine, stating that she required the extra space to store her dresses. I will never forget what she told me upon seeing my teary-eyed confusion in being moved to these cramped quarters, my grief at Nan’s passing still fresh:Be thankful it is not the garden shed.
After tugging on a clean blue dress and white stockings, I quickly yank a comb through my hair before hurrying downstairs to boil water for tea, slipping an apron across my front. I slice pears, brie, and a day-old baguette, arranging the food on a tarnished silver platter. Rare it is that her ladyship allows me into the kitchen. Most nights, she cooks for herself and I am tossed the leftovers.Better than nothing.At least, that is what I tell myself.
A knock cuts the quiet as I place the refreshments in the sitting room and return to the kitchen. Curiously, I peer around the corner toward the foyer.
The front door opens with a muffled creak. I wince. Lady Clarisse ordered me to oil the hinges, but with the approaching harvest, my workload has increased, and it slipped my mind. No doubt she will carve marks into my skin for the oversight.
“Welcome, Prince Balior. I trust your journey was uneventful?” Her ladyship is all smiles for this guest.
“I would not call it uneventful, exactly.” As she steps back, a tall man dressed in a black robe and loose, ivory trousers crosses the threshold. His dark brown complexion and unusual manner of dress suggests he has traveled from a distant realm.
“But where is the, ah…companionthat you mentioned in your letter? Not delayed, I hope?” her ladyship asks sweetly.
“We’ll get to that.” As his gaze sweeps the foyer, it comes to rest on my form. I immediately retreat. “At the moment, I’m far more interested in the prisoner you have detained. You say he is a god?”
“One of the Anemoi, if I’m not mistaken.”
My mouth shapes a softo. Lady Clarisse has imprisoned plenty of immortals. Fair folk and demons, mostly. Never a god. How was she able to overpower him? As for these Anemoi… I’ve never heard of them. In Marles, we venerate our Mother of Earth for her abundant harvests and our Master of Sea, who supplies the fishermen their daily catch.
The guest—Prince Balior—chuckles softly. “Lady Clarisse, you cannot know how glad I am to hear this.” He glances at her left hand, which is bare. “Are you alone, or…?”
Her ladyship’s expression shutters, and she takes a small step back. “I called you here for business, Prince Balior. If that does not interest you, please let me know.”
“Of course. I apologize, madam.”
The sitting room door snicks shut, muting their conversation. They will likely be preoccupied for some time.
My thoughts drift upstairs, toward the northern tower, and my gut cramps sickeningly. One of the divine. That would explain why he is entombed in steel and stone. His power is too great to be contained by the cells belowground. Three months of suffering… Now I am all the more curious to learn what information Lady Clarisse covets from this deity.
Back in the workshop, I hunt through one of the cabinet drawers for supplies. This might be my only opportunity to aid the prisoner. As much as I fear her ladyship’s wrath, it feels wrong to harm one ofthe divine. Without them, our farms would cease to flourish. The sea would not provide. Why should I stop with an antidote when I can offer blessed respite, a means to numb the pain of whatever anguish Lady Clarisse has inflicted upon him?
Seeing as I do not know the extent of the prisoner’s injuries, I cannot determine how strong a healing salve is needed. I do, however, know my employer. She would have carved into his skin, let the blood weep from a thousand cuts. It is not the first cruelty I’ve witnessed. The list is as long as it is gruesome.
Nails ripped from nailbeds.
Hot oil poured into eyes.
The crack of a split bone.
