Looking down at herself, as Coira worked oils through her hair, Belle would hardly call herself charming. From her perspective, she appeared as a figurehead atop a tent of cloth. There was a bustle fastened about the waist that made the dress flare at the hips, and the cinching of her middle emphasized what little womanly shape she possessed. All she could see, from her vantage point, were excessive sweeps of maroon fabric and cleavage that had never been there before.
With a twist, a tug, and fast-working fingers, Coira pronounced Belle's hair finalized and her transformation into a young lady complete.
Belle patted her head. She could no longer feel the fuzzy and flyaway pieces of her hair sprouting in every direction. It was smooth and pulled tight against her scalp.
"Can I go find Munro now?"
Ever since he had left her room, Henry's absence had left Belle unsettled.
When he had been reading her father's letter, she had felt a blind panic begin to shake down her limbs. Her mind had shut down, and her mouth had felt dry. She had begun to sweat.
Henry had been the one to talk her down.
He had been the one to speak to her with sense and reason. He had not charged forward like a hero of might. He had possessed no drawn sword to battle the monstrous feelings of impotence and fear. Instead, he had simply stood there, speaking in that calm, authoritative manner of his.
Like a rock that cut a river in two simply because it refused to move.
No violence, no aggressive moment of heroism like in the games she had played with Elliott. Just an unemotional source of security. Like a blanket on a cool night.
Since he had left the room, Belle had noticed those nerves starting to seep back beneath her skin. Coira's ministrations to her clothes, hair, and face had been a suitable distraction, but the shudders had risen all the same. Now, her fingers trembled, and her knees rocked back and forth in impatience.
Her entire world had been turned upside down in less than a single sunset and sunrise. And the counselor was the only one to whom Belle felt comfortable cleaving.
Bizarre as that was, it was instinctive. And Belle was not one to mistrust her most natural guide.
"Yes, mistress. Follow me, and I will take us to the reading room."
Deliberately, Coira stood straight, shifted her shoulders back, and lifted her chin. She placed her hands before her pelvis.
Realizing the lesson at hand, Belle quickly mimicked the pose, feeling awkward and stiff.
One followed the other as they left the chamber and headed down yet another hallway of the castle.
"I'll get lost here."
"I am sure that mistress will become acquainted with the building in less time than she thinks," Coira murmured softly. She took a left turn and then a right. "There are maps of the castle in the reading room. Perhaps Sir Munro would care to show you. It may help to imagine the pattern of halls and rooms as you explore the estate?"
"Mm."
Not knowing what a map looked like or whether it would help, Belle could offer little by way of response. She was also becoming distracted by the fact that she could only hear one set of footsteps echoing off the stone walls. Hers.
Frowning, Belle watched Coira carefully, listening for the taps of her feet but hearing nothing. Wondering if it was the way she shifted her hips as she walked, Belle attempted to follow suit. She lightened her step, as if she were sneaking into the southern pastures below her home, and shifted her hips back and forth with each step. The noise of her feet lessened a little.
Feeling pleased, Belle focused on her walk for the rest of the journey. By the time they reached the eastern wing, she was exhausted already. The moment her feet had not fallen silent, she had realized that her posture was wrong. Once that had been corrected again, she held her hands out for balance instead of in front of her. Moving them to her front had seen her steps make noise.
It was a cycle of frustration.
"They make even walking hard," she mumbled to herself.
Glancing her way, Coira smiled and opened the door. As Belle stepped on through, there was nothing ladylike in the way her mouth dropped open.
The reading room in the eastern wing was a chamber of immense size. The ceilings were twice the height of the room she had slept in, and shelves stretched to their very height. From floor to rooftop were rows and rows of tomes and bound rolls of parchment. Only the occasional space was permitted for a window, seemingly built within the bookcases themselves. The beams of the ceiling hung with wrought-iron holders for candles, and oil lamps adorned every table surface. The tables themselves, little things dotted about the place, were always accompanied by a single cushioned chair and a smoking box. The largest was a writing desk, kept to one side beneath a huge painting of strange shapes and words. Upon the desk was a wooden frame with beads threaded on wooden rods, a sheath of paper, and both chalk and ink. Henry stood to its right.
Dressed as he had been that morning, he wore stockings and knee-high boots beneath a kilt tunic. The white fabric of his undershirt clung to his arms all the way to the wrists.
It was only now that she noticed him wearing a family crested ring.
With his standing near a window, it was the first time that Belle was able to see his features clearly. The morning had passed by in a panic of revelation, and the night before had been tainted with shadows and light that flickered and twisted. In solid sunlight, Henry Munro appeared in full detail before her eyes.
