“I can memorize, though,” I added quickly. “Mother used to make me recite …”
“Recite? Interesting.” She tapped one gloved finger against her reddened lips. “Let us see. Pass me the book.”
I did so, as carefully as possible. Milady’s gloved hands seemed to open like lilies as she received it, the book barely registering as a weight in her graceful movements. I brushed my palms on my skirts. What had Milady hoped would happen, just then? I was used to feeling like a disappointment when it came to such things, but usually I had at least an idea of what was expected.
Milady started to read. She read through the entire first page, her voice perfectly modulated, pausing and breathing in exactly the right places to pause and breathe. She made a point of moving her eyes very deliberately to the start of the opposing page, so that I could see where I would need to break, and then she read down the second page. Finally, she stopped and looked up, one perfect eyebrow raised.
“Is that all?” I said. Two pages was nothing. Mother had expected me to memorize a dozen at a time, at least.
“For now, yes. Say it back to me. Without the book, this first time.”
I clasped my hands behind my back to keep them from trembling and recited the words Milady had just spoken. My Hair strained to rise and float about me. The gloves became tighter and tighter, until blood buzzed in my swollen fingertips, and my pulse fought against the skin of my wrists … And then it stopped.
I felt strange. Depleted.
“Fascinating,” she said when I had finished. “Yes, this will do.” She reached for my hands and peeled off the gloves with surprising ease, considering they suddenly felt about three sizes too small. “You will read this at the dinner party tomorrow.”
“A party?”
“Just a few friends, my dear, who wish to meet you. After all, what a wondrous thing, for you to appear after all these years.” Milady closed the book and passed it to me. “Take special care of it. And practice.”
I was shaking, but I took the book obediently. The cover was soft and very lightly furred. I imagined the lamb it had once been, before damping and stretching and scraping had transformed the skin, and I hugged it to my chest as I made my way back to my chambers, breathing more easily now I was out of Milady’s presence.
One of Milady’s footmen now stood to attention right outside my door, with the air of someone who would be standing there for a long time.
“Afternoon, Miss,” he said.
I knew now that I wasn’t a beloved, long-lost family member, or even a guest. I was a prisoner.
Chapter Twelve
The Lovers’ Knot
‘Traditionally used on wedding garments and the altar cloths displayed at such ceremonies. The Lovers’ Knot is not on the list of forbidden stitches, which may only be used by those sworn to the Temple, but it is of a higher order than everyday embroidery. Use with solemnity and humility when you must.’
—An Exhaustive Compendium of Stitches
Both Holy and Base, 4th Edition
The next night, in readiness for the dinner, Milady sent all the maids in the house—every last one—to tackle the Hair. They had obviously heard the story of the lady’s maid who had tried earlier that day and ended up in tears, surrounded by a dozen broken brushes and combs. The Hair was in a mood—as was I. I had not left my room all that day.
When one footman ended his shift, another took up his place. Even my meals had been brought to my chambers—as if I were a child to be confined to my room for speaking out of turn. I hadn’t even been able to speak to Baldbeak, as Milady had sent a maidservant to sit with me. She had been yawning and doing her needlework all day in the armchair by the hearth, making sure I didn’t open the window.
“Please,” I had said eventually, in despair. “Could you lend me some sewing things? I’ll go mad if I have nothing to do.”
I had done no stitchery since leaving Quell, and my fingers were itching for it. My head felt like a tangle of thread, and I knew if I could just get some fabric in front of me, my needle would draw it all out smooth and silken, and I would be able to think.
The maid put down her things for a moment and looked at me. There was genuine sympathy in her eyes, I thought, but she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Miss.”
Because of all this, I was looking forward to getting out—a little—even if I was terrified at the prospect of a dinner withsociety. I had no idea what Milady was planning. All there was to do was study the book she had given me and practice reciting from it convincingly, and so I had reluctantly turned my attention to that. I must have read it a hundred times by the time the maids entered my room warily, eyeing the Hair as if it were a dangerous animal. One held her brush out in front of her already, daggerlike.
“You’re having a bath tonight,” insisted the oldest and strongest of the women. She had rolled up her sleeves in readiness, and her bare forearms looked like legs of lamb.
I stepped back. “I had one yesterday.”
“Milady insists.”
And so a great copper tub was filled, and I was stripped, shivering, down to my smallclothes, before four pairs of arms lowered me into the hot water. I couldn’t help squeaking a little as my skin reddened. I looked like a lobster cooking in a pot, I thought; even more so after they had scrubbed me with soap and soft-bristled brushes, leaving me smarting and raw. Lastly, they washed the Hair. It swallowed up all the soap they could rub into it, with nary a lather, just to be spiteful.
