My heart and legs jump into motion, and I drop into the hard chair.
I find myself fixated on the stain on the table. A single thought circles in my mind: it’s blood. I swallow down the nausea, but it takes effort. A multitude of scars mar the table. What could’ve caused them? As my mind starts reeling, Sergeant Angharad shoves something into my hands. A pair of metal knitting needles and the softest skein of wool I’ve ever touched. I turn my focus to the woman, perplexed.
She says something and I have to reel in my panicking mind to decipher her words.
“Make something?” I ask, hoping I’ve gotten it right.
“Do not make me repeat myself.”
I nod and look down at the items, then up at the woman towering over me, forcing me toknit, practically at sword point. Luckily, her sword is safely in a scabbard at her hip. For now. I take a deep breath and set the needles down in my lap for a moment so I can find the endof the wool. My fingers are stiff and slightly numb from the cold, and my dominant arm throbs, my sleeve rubbing against the injured skin with each movement. Still, I get several stitches onto the needle and throw myself into the repetitive task as though my life depends on it.
In fact, I’m certain it does.
Tears blur my vision, and my hands tremble incessantly, but I work through it. Taig relies on me. I can’t let him down. Even if I’m not physically there with him, I’m his person.
I knit faster than I ever have before, accidentally jabbing my fingers and palms with the dull tips now and then, but I bite through the mild discomfort of it all. After a while, a beefy hand comes into my vision and shoves the work down so aggressively that it’s forced out of my hands. I lift my head, wide-eyed.
“That’s enough,” says Sergeant Angharad. She snatches my work from me and holds it up. I’ve made a small swatch with some kind of lacy motif. Whether it’s an actual sensible design, I have no clue. Unimpressed, Sergeant Angharad walks over to the door again and has an exchange with another soldier.
Time drags by. I stare at the table again until the stains and damages morph into different shapes. After forever, Sergeant Angharad approaches me. “Let’s go.”
I stand without argument.
“You are released from your prison sentence,” she says.
Hope floods my chest, and I fight the urge to smile. I’m going home.
“The princess has pardoned you, provided you agree to serve as her new dressmaker.”
My heart sinks, my shoulders slump—icy dread replaces relief. I’m not going home… Tears prickle behind my eyes and it takes the utmost effort to keep from bawling, from begging them to let me go.
“Do you agree?”
What other choice do I have? It’s either accept, or what? Conscription to the Veilguards? Life in prison? Death on the gallows? There are so many questions bombarding me, but I can’t convince the words to come out. I nod and the soldier’s shoulders sag.
“Follow me,” she says.
I force myself to trail behind her out of the room and through a tunnel lit only with a few oil lanterns. We round corner after corner. I swear we’re walking in circles.
Will I ever see my home again? Taig must be so confused about where I am. I hope Osheen is taking good care of him. but with the days growing longer, Osheen will be working more hours. What if Taig is subjected to long periods all by himself? My heart lurches and tears stream uncontrolled down my cheeks, even as I try to will them away.
My legs protest, my feet gripping the rough stone floor harder as we ascend through the tunnels. By the time we come upon dark stone stairs, pressure is building in my ears, and my calves and thighs scream louder with each step.
Just when I think I cannot climb any farther, the floor levels out and we head out of the darkness and through a small, empty vestibule toward a door. We step out of the building, and I draw in a sharp breath as my feet sink into the cold, grassy earth. The sun has departed, leaving behind a subtle trace of orange on the horizon and the faint beginnings of the crescent moon. After being in the dark for so long, the brightness of the sun is an assault on my senses. I squint, my vision bleary, my forehead beginning to throb.
Wordlessly, Sergeant Angharad follows the winding path of the plateau, trekking up a series of cliffside steps flanked by bushes. My heart hammers, but as much as I try not to look down, my curiosity pulls my gaze down to the loch below. Dark water wavers beneath the subtle rays of the sun, sending a rush of dizziness straight to my head.
I swallow the bitter acid that creeps into my throat and press my hand against the cobblestone wall. Keeping my body as close as possible to the wall, I follow Sergeant Angharad up one last set of stone steps to where the castle looms ahead. Rosebushes and green hedges border the pathway. We move toward an unguarded door, and Sergeant Angharad uses an iron key to open it. She moves aside to let me in, and my wet feet slip on the tiled floors. Again, the soldier has to steady me.
She fixes me with a glare and huffs with frustration before continuing onward. I follow her more carefully this time, each step calculated.
We walk down the corridor, passing several smaller doors before arriving at a large entrance at the very end. Sergeant Angharad raps on the wood and pushes it open, unleashing a rush of aromatic steam from within. The room is dim with candles all around. A slender woman with dark hair kneels on one of two shallow steps that lead up to a large vat of steaming water. Another woman with a curvaceous figure sets a heap of towels down on the bottom step and turns to face me as the door shuts.
I swallow and blink back tears as the redhead approaches me. She wipes her hands on her apron, her brown dress and underskirt pinned on one side up to her thick thigh, as though she’s expecting to wade into the water herself. “Oh, poor dear,” she says to me. “You look stunned.”
Stunned… that’s one way to put it.
“With the … and fresh clothing, … much better. If you will disrobe?”
