Anya turns from the window. She’s wearing a pale nightdress someone must have left for her. Her hair is loose. Her face is washed clean, making her look younger and more tired than she did downstairs.
Her eyes move over me immediately. “What happened?”
I glance down and realize my knuckles are bleeding. I must have split the skin gripping the desk. “Nothing.”
“That doesn’t look like nothing.”
I close the door behind me.
She watches the movement.
Not afraid exactly. Wary.
Good. She should be wary.
“Your aunt came to see you,” she says.
I look at her. “You heard?”
“No. I guessed.” Her mouth tightens. “She doesn’t like me.”
“No.”
The honesty surprises her.
“At least you admit it,” she says.
I walk to the side table and pick up a clean cloth, wrapping it around my knuckles.
“She wants the old wedding custom followed,” I say.
Anya goes still. “What custom?”
I look at her.
There is no easy way to say it.
“A white sheet.”
For a second, she doesn’t understand.
Then she does. The color leaves her face. “She wants proof?”
“Yes.”
“Proof that you…” She stops, unable to finish.
“That the marriage has been consummated.”
Her arms fold across her chest, defensive and small. “That’s disgusting.”
“Yes.”
“And humiliating.”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you telling me?”
