Page 21 of Hazard a Guest
“Sharp,” she confirmed.
“If you say so.” He sighed and gave an exaggerated shrug. “Ah, look, I think this one’s yours.”
One of the servants had already begun to tote her luggage inside, her red leather valise and the additional trunk of her clothing.
She squared her shoulders and peeked inside, suspecting somewhere under her sternum and behind her lungs that she’d find something fit for a new maid: a narrow cot and perhaps a washbasin.
Mercifully, Penrose was not that petty.
There was a gorgeous and obscenely large bed wedged between two sash windows along the wall. A stocked vanity and two wardrobes flanked it on either side, and best of all, there was a massive claw-footed tub and washing sink tucked into the corner.
Luxury! And here she’d been bracing for pain.
She sent a hum of gratitude up toward heaven, thanking Brigid for her mercy, gave a little finger wave to the men, and kicked the heavy door shut behind her.
Then, and only then, did she allow herself that collapse she’d been craving with one addendum: she aimed her body at a soft feather mattress, not the floor.
Ember knewshe ought to dress again after her bath and venture out into the party, but she also knew there would be much gained if she allowed herself to sleep off the weariness of several days on the road before she needed to spar with anyone.
She took her time picking through the creams and ointments on the vanity table until she found some things she’d like to try. She slathered her body with luxury, allowing the maids who’d brought her bath water to unpack her things at their own leisure.
One of them, a short, plump woman who couldn’t have been much older than twenty, brightened at each new dress she pulled out, whispering to her colleague, “Look at the braiding on this one! It could be real gold!” or “Look at this stole! Mink, but dyed green! Genius!” until she was harshly shushed.
Ember made a point to smile at her. “Would you mind terribly helping me with my hair? I see you’ve got the same curls I do.”
“Oh, ma’am, of course!” said the girl, winning a narrow glance from the side by the maid who’d shushed her. “We’ve a lovely rose oil, and I’ll wrap it for sleeping!”
The girl was called Merryn, Ember came to learn, and she was native to the lands around Blackcove.
“Of course the place is a bit of local yarn,” she chattered as she used her nimble fingers to coat each and every ringlet on Ember’s head with the fragrant oil, using her fingers over the comb if she encountered any snarls. “Mammy told me from a fresh young age I’d end up working here if I was lucky, and so I suppose I am!”
“Tell me about this yearly festivity, Merryn,” Ember bade her. “Is it the same faces every year?”
“Well, it’s only my third year, I’m afraid. There are a lot of usual faces, of course, but every year is new folk too. I’ll figure out their names dreckly, then the whole thing is over until I’ve forgot them all again!”
“Isn’t that always the way?” Ember chuckled.
“The other young lady sharing this room is proper lovely, though,” the girl continued, plucking away knots and gnarls with a painless, familiar turn of her fingertips that spoke to the perfection of her own tight blonde ringlets bouncing merrily on her forehead. “You’ll like her plenty, miss. I’m sure of it.”
She ensured Merryn would be her personal attendant for the duration of the stay before she let the girl go, tucking two shillings into her apron without an ear for protest.
By the time Ember was alone, the room was fully settled. Her dresses were hanging neatly in the wardrobe, her hair was washed, dried, and wrapped in a fine linen, and her body was feeling something she might almost call relief. There was nothing left to do save unpack the tiny velvet sack of particulars she always left in the exterior flap of her valise. Often, it was overlooked, but the Blackcove maids had found it, handled it with care, and left it waiting for her on the vanity.
Ember waited until her skin had fully absorbed the bounty of her toilette before retrieving it, falling back on the pillows with her turban of sweetly cool fabric brushing her cheeks and nape. She even drifted for a bit, just a moment, before returning to herself and remembering what she’d wanted to do before chasing sleep in earnest.
She tipped forward, only supporting her own weight for the breadth of a step there and one back, snatching up the little pouch and cradling it in her lap as she landed again in the sweet confines of the bed.
She loosed the strings holding the bag together and reached inside, her fingertips finding the glossy grooves that had appeared after a decade of touching and holding. She fished out the old deck of cards inside, frayed at the edges, faded and shiny in places.
“Well, Mr. Withers,” she said as brightly as she could, “I’ve made it to Blackcove. Now I just need to save our little house, don’t I? I need to protect the Forge.”
She ran the cards through her fingers, shuffling and stacking, finding something reassuring in the motion of it.
“We never had a child, but we have a progeny all the same,” she told him. “I expect you to help me protect her.”
She cut the deck, sucking in a little breath, and turned the top card over.
Ace of Hearts.
