Page 28 of Realm of Thieves

After the bath incident withAndor, Lemi and I quickly sneak across the hallway. The door is wide open and the wallpaper is yellow floral, so I assume it’s the “yellow room.”

Like the bathroom, it’s grand. Too grand for me. It has the same gilded arches over the windows, though they aren’t stained glass, and a burgundy velvet curtain frames two glass doors that open out onto a stone balcony that overlooks the courtyard below. I decide to lookafterI have clothes on, just in case I end up flashing some of the Kolbecks or their help.

I focus on getting dressed. On the sprawling bed—the largest I’ve ever seen—are three outfits laid out. Dresses in various shades of pink. I don’t think I’ve ever had anything pink in my whole life. The colors we wear in Esland are dusty grays and browns and olive greens, the better to match the desert scenery. The hooded robes we wore at the convent were heavy and black. Anything with bright or pleasing colors would be seen as an affront to the dragons, as if we were trying to compete with their beauty. Not that I’ve ever seen a pink dragon before.

Solla is roughly my size—neither of us is particularly thin—but I am quite a bit taller than her, so when I slip on the undershirt, thedress sleeves come halfway up my forearm, and the skirt hem hits at the ankle instead of the floor. The neckline is somewhat low with lacy pink ruffles, and the velvet accents on the gown make me feel as if I’m wearing fancy upholstery. I feel silly but it fits well enough.

Then I glance in the mirror and nearly jump. Yes, I definitely look strange with my hair down and the fancy dress, like I’m a child trying on my mother’s clothes, as if my mother was some rich Norlander and not a rebel always scraping by on the outskirts of Lerick.

I start gathering my damp hair and braiding it down my back, looping it around a few times until it’s in a loose bun. There. Now I look a tiny bit more refined.

“What do you think, Lemi?” I ask him.

He tilts his head, pondering. I don’t want to hear his answer.

Knock knock.

“Who is it?” I ask, creeping toward the door.

I hear a muffled reply. “It’s Solla. Do you need any help with your dress?”

My first instinct is to say no, I’m fine. I’ve never needed help getting dressed before, not as an adult anyway. All my outfits are simple tunics and pants I can slip on. The corset ties up at the front, and even my armor snaps together with buckles I can reach.

But I haven’t worn a gown since I was a child, and I can’t reach the laces at the back.

“You may come in,” I reluctantly say.

The door opens and Solla pokes her head inside. I didn’t really notice it before—I suppose I was too busy trying to plot my escape—but I see the resemblance to Andor. Though her eyes are blue, not amber, and her forehead is hidden by her thick, dark bangs, I can tell her brow works overtime with her expressions, just like her brother’s. She’s a really pretty girl, maybe a few years younger than me, petite with soft curvy lines and pale, smooth skin that point to a life of wealth and good, healthy food and having all your needs catered to.

And yet, even though she looks different from the wiry people of the Dark City, I wouldn’t underestimate this girl. Not only because of her ability to move things with her mind, but because I sense a darkness behind the quiet posture, a strength in her diminutive height. The same darkness I’ve glimpsed in Andor when he’s let his jovial mask slip for a moment.

“It’s not too big?” Solla asks, coming inside the room and closing the door after her.

I turn around and gesture to my back. “I guess I need some help with the laces. I’m afraid you have a bigger chest than me.”

She snorts. “I have a bigger chest than most women,” she says, coming around and grabbing the laces at the back. “I’ll tell you a secret with these dresses. Put the top on backward and then lace them up that way. Twist them around when you’re done. You won’t need anyone.”

She gives the laces a sharp tug that nearly squeezes the breath out of me.

“Sorry, is that too tight?” she asks sweetly.

“No,” I say with a gasp. “Who needs lungs anyway?”

She laughs softly at that and thankfully loosens the laces enough for me to breathe. If it were my time of the month and I was feeling poorly, I wouldn’t be able to have any constriction around my middle at all. “Sorry. My handmaid used to lace me up so tightly that I often fainted just roaming around the halls. It was my father’s idea, you know. To try to make some kind of point.”

“And what point is that?”

“His attempt at making me lose weight—or make me look like I had,” she says. “But I got the last laugh. I dismissed my handmaiden.”

So he’s not only a dick to Andor but to Solla as well. If that’s how he treats his children, then how will he treat a prisoner?

“Besides, I’ve never wanted to depend on anyone,” she goes on. I can agree with that.

“And your mother?” I ask. “Where is she?”

There’s a pause in her lacing. Then she clears her throat and resumes. “She’s dead.”

I know her pain too well.

---