Page 127 of Queen of Nothing

I stomp into the warm mist, and each cross step takes me closer to the white leather bench I used to sit on while I applied my lotions.

I drop the clothes onto it, then start to strip off the harsh, scratchy material suffocating my body.

No bubbles rise with the bathwater.

I’m almost disappointed—then I see the trolley beside the tub. Filled with lotions and oils and balms.

Abigail lifts a glass bottle from the silver trolley, then holds the dropper over the rising water.

She drips beads of oil into it.

She’s not preparing a bath for my pleasure or enjoyment. This is a practical wash, with water infused with brews that will ease the tension out of my body as expertly as the hands of a masseuse, a bath that will moisturise my dry skin, replenish the hydration of my hair, and restore balance to my complexion.

The breath I release is soft.

It is content.

Without argument, I climb into the tub.

And I soak.

I soak for so long that my eyelids are pulling down, that—without a stash of sleep brews from Oliver—I’m starting to release all that adrenaline and tension and anxiety… and I might just drift off.

But I don’t.

I blink my heavy eyelids open.

In the mist of the room, Abigail massages shampoo deep into my scalp. It’s hard to stop the moan from ribboning through me.

Bliss.

Absolute bliss.

I’ve always loved this part of my baths. But I really never knew how much I needed it until now—until I’ve gone without it for so long.

She rinses out the suds with warm water from a porcelain jug. I watch her in the mirror, steamy and distorted. Then she works some droplets of oil into my hair, section by section, the kind that isn’t meant to be washed out.

On the run, I used conditioner. A lot. Too much. And my hair shows the damage of the cheapness of it.

Abigail tries to repair it.

It’s pointless, really. I’ll need an expert.

Mother will have noticed.

I expect to be attacked by a hairdresser any minute now.

“Where is my mother?” I ask—now that the steam has faded into wisps, and time has passed, but she hasn’t come to me.

Abigail says, “The party moved to the parlour after dinner service.”

“The party,” I echo, my mouth curling slowly with each enunciation. Because that means the Sinclairs haven’t left yet. “And Father?”

“In his office with Master Oliver,” she says, running a comb through my treated hair.

My answer is a curt hum.

Still trying to work out what to do with me, I suppose. Father and Oliver deliberating where to send me, or if they should keep me here.