“Why…” she begins.
“Don’t ask,” I mutter quickly. I wipe my sleeve across my nose, clearing away the last remnants of tears. “Is it time? Do I go to the mines now?”
Atilia’s expression tightens. Her shoulders draw up, not with cruelty, but with bracing patience, before she lets out a laugh.
I glare at her. “This isn’t funny. Have you seen the mines?”
“Oh, I’ve seen them,” she replies simply, as if discussing a routine chore instead of a nightmare. “And it wouldn’t be funny if he truly meant to send you there. But he doesn’t.”
I blink. “But Lord Luceran said…”
“Luceran says many things,” she interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. “Especially when he’s angry, and I have never seen him so angry, so often, as he has been since you arrived at Castle Frostwyn.” Her tone softens. “You do not need to fear, child. Now come out of the wardrobe.”
I try, but my body refuses to cooperate. When I twist, something in my back cracks loudly, and a horrible creak escapes me. Atilia sighs and steps forward, hooking her arms beneath mine and dragging me out. I groan throughout the process until she finally hauls me upright.
She studies me critically. “You’re a mess,” she declares. Then she leans in and sniffs. “And you don’t smell great either.”
I scowl. “Thank you for your kind words, but I honestly don’t give a shit what I look or smell like right now.”
Atilia’s amused grin blooms. “Yes. Luceran mentioned you’re fond of cursing. Perhaps we need to wash your mouth out along with your hair?”
I huff. “I’ve heard him curse plenty. I don’t see why it’s such an issue when I do it.”
“Because servants don’t curse at their master,” she replies without missing a beat. “In fact, they don’t talk at all. But you,” she flicks a hand at me like I’m a stray ember, “you seem determined to rewrite every rule of this bargain.”
“You talk to him,” I mutter under my breath, turning my face just enough that I can pretend she wasn’t meant to hear it.
But of course she does. Her hearing is far too sharp for that.
“I am not a servant,” she says curtly, chin lifting.
“Then what are you?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She straightens fully, shoulders pulling back as the smirk slips away. “Something else,” she says at last. “And not your concern.” She gestures toward the washbasin. “Now, if you are done talking, for once, let’s clean you up.”
Atilia boils water over the hearth, the crackling logs casting amber light across the room, and when the steam rises she pours it into the basin. The warmth shocks me when she presses the cloth to my arm. I hadn’t realized just how much grime clung to my skin. She wipes it all away with patient, methodical strokes.
My braid takes longer. She unwinds it strand by strand, and it fights her the whole way. At one point she tugs so hard I yelp, and she mutters something in Fae I don’t think I’m meant to understand. But she doesn’t stop. She works sweet-smelling oil into my hair, massaging it from the roots to the ends until the tangles loosen and my red hair shines like molten glass before the fire. Then she combs it through, careful now, almost gentle, leaving it loose over my shoulders.
By the time she sits me in the chair by the fire and hands me a warm cup of tea, I feel… lighter. Cleaner. Myself again.
I don’t understand why she does any of this. I doubt Luceran ordered it, not after the way he looked at me in the library. Not after what he said.
But when she settles into the chair beside mine, letting out a content sigh, she says, “That’s better.”
I don’t return the nicety. Not with the image of her hand pressed against Luceran’s chest still burned into my eyes, not with the memory of him snarling over me, tearing a book in half, freezing the library with a single exhale.
So I ask boldly, “Who are you to him? Truly.”
Atilia’s smile is thin, almost pitying. “You wonder why you get yourself into so much trouble.” She shakes her head and tips her chin up as though studying me anew. “You area smart girl, Neve. That much is clear. If only you were smart enough to know when to play the game, and when to retire from it. Your life would be a much simpler thing.”
I lift the teacup, steam curling into my face. “Perhaps I don’t want a simple life.”
“No one remarkable ever does,” she murmurs.
Remarkable. No one has ever used that word for me.
I lower the cup, swallow, then take a breath to steady my courage. “I saw the portraits in the library. Stacked near the shelves. Is that… Lady Frostwyn? Did they hang in the hall once?”
