I continue with my grinding. Even at this distance, I smell the soap on his skin: rosemary, black pepper, goat’s milk. “Very well.” His absence certainly makes no difference to my day.
When the silence stretches to the point of frayed threads, I turn to glance at his hooded form. Water beads along the bones rising from the center of his upper back. My eyes drop. His feet are bare. The sight unnerves me, and I promptly resume my work.
“Is there something else you n-need?” I say, only a little breathlessly. “Is my chopping disturbing you?” Lady Clarisse always complained about how loudly I worked, as if one can shop herbsnoiselessly.
Eurus steps closer so the warmth of his body buffets my flank. I continue twisting the pestle in half circles. With little enough space in the bedroom to begin with, the East Wind’s considerable physique all but commands the small chamber.
“Why do you continue grinding the powder?” he asks, a warm exhalation stirring the hair atop my head. “It’s already as fine as it can be.”
So he thinks. “If the poison is to be successful, it m-must dissolve into the bloodstream instantaneously. Only the finest powder will suffice.”
“It looks fine enough.”
Inwardly, I scoff. The things Nan could teach him! “A proper poison is both science and art. You cannot r-rush it.”
“If it’s already ground up,” he goes on, “it would be more efficient to move on to the next step.”
“Why don’t you let me focus on wh-what I do best,” I snap, “instead of offering your opinion on something you know nothing about?” The swiftness of my rebuttal, the severity of my tone—today, I will not be pressed into the earth like an errant pebble.
Eurus leans down, the hood of his cloak angled toward me. “Take care to remember who it is you speak to,” he murmurs.
As that darkness shifts, the skin along my arms prickles with some unnamable emotion. The East Wind need not worry.
I will never forget.
The city center is marked by a large square to which all roads lead. Strolling alongside Demi—dressed stunningly in slender white trousers, pink heels, and a sage green blouse—we explore the various shops, browsing all manner of flowers and soaps, teas and jewels, fabrics and books, perfumes and shoes. Bells ring unceasingly as doors open and shut, open and shut.
The goddess tugs me into yet another clothing boutique, where a gaggle of women complete their purchases at the front counter. I finger my threadbare dress self-consciously, all too aware of the runs in my stockings. Someone sniggers. I wince and duck my head.
Demi slides an arm around my shoulder, glaring at our audience. “Something to say?”
The women exchange a wordless look, then exit the store with their bags in tow.
“Try not to let them bother you,” Demi offers. “The one with the black hair?” She lowers her voice. “Her mother chained her to a rock, poor thing.”
Too overwhelmed with gratitude to speak, I allow the goddess to lead me toward the back of the boutique. While I take a seat on a padded bench, Demi stands before a long mirror, a gown in each hand: one green, one blue. The latter appears to be fashioned from rippling water. The former sparkles with an intensity that rivals the sun.
“For the victor’s banquet,” she explains. “It’s putting the cart before the horse, I know, but I need an excuse to buy something beautiful.” Lifting the green dress in front of her body, she adds, “I’m leaning toward emerald, but I do love the cut of the navy gown. What do you think?”
“I think you’d look good in anything you chose to wear,” I say, and I mean that sincerely. She is every shade of striking, and I can’t fathom why she would choose to spend her afternoon with me—unless she seeks information about the East Wind.
The goddess quirks her mouth, but its curve fails to touch her eyes. “You’re sweet. Too sweet for Eurus, as far as I’m concerned. You truly don’t have a preference?”
“It’s not the gown that makes one beautiful.”
She turns. There is something different about her face. Before I’m able to grasp whatever emotion has exposed itself, she sniffs, dabs beneath her eyes with a square of cloth. “Are you trying to make me cry?” Then she shakes her head. “Maybe you are his assistant after all.”
Another moment hemming and hawing, and she selects the green gown. It costs two thousand gold coins. For that price, one would think it were sewn entirely from emeralds.
As it turns out, it is.
We return to the chaos of the streets, and I allow myself to relax for the first time since my arrival. Though the sun beats back the chill, my skin stipples in the shade, and I rub my bare arms, wishing I’d remembered my coat. Sometime later, we pass a cart selling hot cider and jars of honey, enveloped in a cloud of cinnamon-scented air. I gaze longingly at the drink, but of course I’ve no coin to purchase one.
Before I understand what is happening, Demi buys two ciders and offers one to me.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” I protest.
“You can, and you will. I insist.” She doesn’t relent until I accept the drink for what it is: a gift. “You know what complements cinnamon surprisingly well?” Demi asks over the rim of her cup. I shake my head. “Blueberries.”
