Page 122 of The Bone Season

It took a while to undress with a broken wrist. I craned to look at my back in the mirror. A deep bruise had cropped up between my shoulder blades. I took off the splint, finding the base of my thumb sore and swollen.

A deep, steaming bath awaited me, smelling of lavender. Little by little, I sank into it, savouring every inch of water. Once I was in, I almost shuddered with relief. It had been so long since I had last been wrapped in heat like this.

I let my head fall back, my left hand resting on the side. The windows misted over as I lay there, too exhausted to move. A cake of honey soap, a nail brush, and a jar labelledSHAMPOOhad been left for me. Once I had mustered the will to sit up, I scrubbed myself one-handed with the soap and set to work on my hair.

Warden must be trying to butter me up for our supper. I had to keep my wits about me. His consort was still hunting for Jaxon.

I lounged in the bath until it was lukewarm, then rinsed my hair under the cold tap, dried off with a fluffy towel, and slotted my arms into a thick robe, my jaw clenched against the pain in my wrist. Unlike the massive towel, the robe was clearly made for a human. I went up to the attic for my comb and untangled my hair.

Warden awaited me in his bedchamber, where he and Terebell had been sitting. He gestured to the seat on the other side of the alcove.

‘Please.’

I sat down. ‘Not the parlour?’

‘This window has a pleasant outlook. If it is not to your liking, we can use the parlour.’

‘It’s fine.’

Other than his goblet, the table built into the nook was set for one. I sat with my arms crossed, waiting for him to make conversation.

‘Michael is preparing your supper,’ he said. ‘I trust you feel better.’

‘Yes.’ I scraped back my wet hair. ‘I wouldn’t mind having a bath more often.’

‘Now you have passed your second test, that might be permitted.’

‘I still won’t thank you for giving me the most basic of dignities.’

‘You are under no obligation to thank me.’

‘Good.’

Warden took a sip from his goblet. I tapped my foot.

‘Merope tells me you attempted to possess the Emite,’ he said. ‘You had a narrow escape. Their dreamscapes are like flytraps, ensnaring the nearest spirits – yours included, I should think.’

‘I’ll add it to the list of things you didn’t warn me about, like cold spots,’ I said. ‘Is that how they get here from the Netherworld?’

‘Yes. Cold spots are gateways to our world, but living flesh cannot pass through them.’

‘So you can still go there, even though it’s decaying.’

‘For short periods of time. Sooner or later, we must return.’

‘To feed,’ I said.

‘Yes.’

His eyes were gold tonight. I glanced away from them, out of the window, which overlooked the old tree in the courtyard. It showed no sign of leaves or blossom, but lanterns hung from its branches. Gail lit them at dusk on her way to the Porters’ Lodge.

The fire warmed the bedchamber, drying my hair back into curls. In the parlour, the gramophone played ‘I Don’t Stand a Ghost of a Chance (With You)’ – a jazz standard from the twentieth century, blacklisted for the grave offence of having the wordghostin its title, even though it had nothing to do with ghosts.

‘You seem to like our music,’ I said, when Warden refused to break the silence.

His tastes, in fact, were almost identical to mine. I chose not to voice this.

‘Very much,’ he said. ‘Most of my records are from the free world. The quality of music has declined in Scion.’

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