Who was I to drink this freely from water like this? A girl from the southern district. Daughter of the Dip.
You’re a daughter of scorn, my mother’s voice said, soft but willful.Drink.
And so I did, gulp after gulp until my belly stretched tight.
I jerked my head up, chest heaving. Somehow the basin looked untouched, the water as clear as ever. I stared at it a moment, brow drawn, but that passed as soon as my eyes moved to the tub and the large bucket of water beside it.
A pad of green moss had been set beside the bucket, from which steam rose. I approached and knelt, setting my fingers into thewater. I jerked them back; it was warm—no, hot, like someone had just filled it.
My heart beat faster. I rose and glanced out the doorway, but the bedroom was empty. I turned back to the stone tub, and a longing like I’d rarely known overtook me. Water, hot and all for me, and a deep tub and the whole night to be in it.
Maybe my last night.
I took my mother’s journal out of the pocket of my jerkin and set it atop the animal skin on the bed. Then I removed my clothes, piece by piece, and set them neatly on the floor.
But when I stepped into the bathroom, I carried my knife with me.
I spenthours in my tub. At first the water was scalding, but soon I got used to it—and then I could hardly bear to leave it. The water never seemed to cool, and I alternately scrubbed myself and rested and stared up at the gold-flamed lantern hanging from the ceiling.
The flame inside flickered, but it didn’t look like fire. It had a staticky quality, and the color was paler as it shivered over the walls. It was inexplicable, mesmerizing.
After some time, it occurred to me the water and tub should be filthy—as filthy as my body had been when I’d stepped in. But when I climbed out, the water was as clear as if I hadn’t bathed at all.
A cruel, uncanny purgatory.
I took hold of what must be a towel, but the fabric felt unlike anything I’d touched, like someone had softened and woven bark threads with moss. It was so soft, almost too lovely and green and lush to use, yet I did, blotting my hair with it as I gazed down at the tub.
After everything strange I’d encountered, why not this?
It was all inexplicable to me, and so my brain had decided at some point to allow for all of it. A survival mechanism, maybe, so I could go on without the overwhelm pulling me under.
I needed clothing, and mine looked and smelled unholy. In the bedroom, the dresser had three wide drawers. I pulled the first knotted handle open and an array of cloth in earth colors emerged. I lifted a dark-green piece of clothing out—a leather tunic, but far too large for me. The neck was woven with even darker-green threads.
I put it on anyway, rolling the sleeves. At least it wasn’t dirty and bloody. On me, it was as long as a dress.
Several more tunics and a pair of pants lay in the first drawer. I didn’t even bother trying on the pants.
The next two drawers held jackets and blankets and slippers. I drew out one of the slippers; it was a pale leather tufted with white fur, and so fine it felt almost wrong for me to be touching it. And it was twice my size.
In the bottommost drawer I found a hairbrush with thick, surprisingly soft bristles. I stood in front of the mirror and drew it through my hair and removed all the snarls.
The girl looking back at me, whistle-clean and sleek, didn’t look like Eurydice Waters. This all felt like a girlhood dream, when I’d fantasized about endless water to drink and bathe in and fine clothes to wear. That girl relished all of this—every bit of it. She was the reason I’d taken such care, why I’d indulged in this space that I had for one night to myself.
After all, I might not see tomorrow.
Soon enough you’ll get your chance to run.
Who knew what these creatures—these monsters—would do to me when the sun rose? I’d rather die clean and sweet-smelling than covered in others’ blood and rank.
When I had finished cleaning myself, I came out of the bathroom and stepped barefoot into the bedroom. I turned back the animal fur and found the mattress covered with light-brown sheets so soft I couldn’t stop running my fingers over them.
In a place where crops only grew indoors, linen was a marvelous luxury.
I had to climb to get into the bed, and once I was in it I felt ridiculously high off the floor. Around me, the room bore a soft gold light, the only shadows from the dresser and the bookcase and armchair.
On one side of me I laid my knife, and on the other my mother’s journal. Even then, cross-legged with only the stillness of the lantern burning above me, I could not cry.
Crying was for afterward. And I was far, far fromafterward.
