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She leads me to a sitting room with a fire already laid, and through it, to a bedroom with a canopy bed hung in pale blue. Through that, to a bathroom with a claw-foot tub big enough to lie down in. Everything is clean, soft, polished; none of it has a single mark on it. I’ve slept under a bridge for months, and I stand in the doorway of the bedroom and look for the cot in the corner that must be mine. Because these rooms can’t be for me.

Sabrina turns the taps on the tub and pours something from a bottle. Steam rises with the smell of flowers. Then she comes to me and starts on the ties of my cloak.

I step back and pull the ties out of her reach.

“I can do it myself,” I say.

She stops and waits until I’m looking at her before she answers. She speaks slowly, keeping her face turned fully toward mine.

“It’s my duty to help you, and it’s my pleasure. I have to get you ready for Master Callum.”

“I’m not used to it.”

“You’ll get used to it. He’s a good man. He’s wise, kind, and he’s devoted.”

She takes the cloak from my shoulders while she talks, and I have to watch her mouth so hard to follow her that I forget to hold onto my sleeves.

“You’ll see,” she adds.

She undoes my dress, slides it down, then removes the shift under it. I’m standing naked in the warm room with all my scars on display. They start near my temple and run down my right cheek and jaw, and along my neck. They cover my right shoulder, my upper arm, my ribs, part of my back, and a wide patch on my right thigh. Some of the skin is pale and glossy. Some of it is ridged and uneven. I turn that side away from her, but she simply takes my hand and helps me into the water without looking.

The water is just the right amount of hot. This is the first time I’ve been warm all the way through since the hospital. I sink to my chin and close my eyes. I can feel the grime of the road and the bridge lifting off me. I let out a sigh and dip my head back to soak my hair.

Sabrina kneels behind me and washes my back. Her hands go over the ridged skin as carefully as over the smooth parts of me. She doesn’t slow down or speed up when she reaches the scars. She wets my hair and works soap through it, and when I open my eyes, she’s moved around to where I can see her.

“Your hair is beautiful. Is the color natural?”

“Yes. It’s from my mother.”

I stop there, because my mother’s hair was the same pale blonde, nearly white by the oven light. Sabrina watches my face and waits, and when I don’t go on, she rinses the soap out of my hair and says nothing more about it.

In the bedroom, another maid has set a tray on the table by the window. Sabrina dries me and helps me into a sleep dress so soft I keep touching it. She points to the tray.

“Eat, then sleep. You need to be rested for the ceremony tonight.”

“What ceremony?”

She brushes the wet hair back from my face and smiles.

“Don’t worry. Master Callum will take care of everything, and it’ll be perfect. I’ll come back in a few hours to help you dress.”

She leaves me alone with the food, and I eat all of it. There’s roast chicken, buttered potatoes, soft white rolls, and stewed pears. I eat with my hands and don’t stop until the plates are clean. I set my pouch of coins on the table beside the empty tray, unsure of where else to put it, and I think about what Sabrina said.

She said a ceremony. Callum wouldn’t have bought me, brought me to his home, given me these rooms, and had me bathed and dressed for a ceremony if he meant to make me a servant. Servants don’t get canopy beds. Servants don’t get told their role is more important than that. He means to marry me.

I want to think it through, but I’m too tired. I climb into bed and pull the covers over me. The mattress gives under my weight where the stone under the bridge never did. It’s the first bed I’ve laid in for months, and I’m asleep almost before I finish the thought.

When I wake, the window is dark and Sabrina is already in the room, shaking out a white dress across the foot of the bed. I’ve slept the whole day away. I sit up, and she smiles wide at me and holds the dress up by the shoulders.

It’s a wedding dress. She gets it over my head with immense care, as if the material is so delicate it might tear. The sleeves are long and made of lace, and the neck is high and closes at the throat with a row of tiny buttons. There’s lace over the bodice and at the hem, and the skirt falls straight and full. There’s no veil to go with it, though. Maybe brides in Nivallia don’t wear veils. Sabrina pulls at the waist, pins something at the back, and then it fits me perfectly.

While she’s fastening the last buttons, the floor shakes. I feel it come up through my bare feet and into the bones of my legs – one long vibration, then another, deep and slow. I grab the bedpost and hold on.

“What is that?”

Sabrina finishes the button before she looks at me.

“It’s the grand bell. It announces the curfew and the closing of the city gate. It rings at sundown.”