Page 6 of Veiled Flames
Nurse tossed my favorite garment into the flames. Anger stokes the red in my cheeks, but I keep it contained. I’d never lay my hand on a servant like that horrible king did to that girl. And I can’t punish Nurse for doing something Housemistress would praise her for. Nurse only wants the best for me.
Resting my hands on the copper tub’s curved edge, I ease one foot into the bath, loving how the heat first stings and then soothes my foot and calf. “I’ll ask Seamstress to make me a new frock,” I say defiantly.
“Housemistress has forbidden Seamstress from crafting more unsuitable garments for ye,” Nurse says.
I spin toward her.
Her eyes cast down, Nurse shakes her head, and she doesn’t seem as pleased with herself as I expected. “It was the King hisself who insisted.” She nods slightly toward the fire, and my appreciation for her grows.
Nurse is the only person who truly cares about me, even if it’s her job to do so, and part of me is pleased that Father even noticed what I’ve been wearing.
I can’t blame her for burning the frock, for wanting to avoid punishment or dismissal for my misdeeds. I suddenly feel very guilty for all the trouble I’ve caused Nurse over the years. She’s served me every year of my two and twenty. When she first took charge of me, Nurse was likely younger than I am now.
I step fully into the tub, and sigh as I ease myself into the warm water, cloudy with milk and generously scented with lilac and night jasmine. “I’m sorry,” I say softly, not sure I want her to hear me.
“A princess does not apologize to a nurse.” The legs of a wooden stool scrape across the stone floor, as she takes a seat behind me.
Nurse gently lifts my long, pink hair from the water, draping it forward over my chest, and I shift away from the back of the tub so she can get the hogs-hair brush between the copper and my body, rubbing my skin through the linen shift.
“Look at the grey color of this water already. Tsk. Tsk. To prepare ye for tonight, I must venture under your shift?” Her voice rises, asking my permission.
I adjust my position, letting the shift’s fabric float more loosely around me, so she can slide her brush under the garment. I close my eyes against the rough sting of the hogs’ hair, knowing that the end result will be worth it. As much as I protested as a child, I always feel better after a good scrub. And it’s all the more satisfying when I start the bath very soiled. It’s a luxury to bathe whenever I wish—every night if it suits me—and counting my blessings fills my heart with contentment.
I may have no power. I may have no purpose or use. I may have no ability to control my fate, but I’m very, very grateful for all that I do have. My young brothers are kind. Theynever told Father how I listened in on their classes, nor how I took part in their archery and sword fighting training. When Master of Swords threatened to put a stop to my antics, Alfryd unexpectedly stood up for me, saying he’d have him dismissed, if he didn’t allow me to train.
Father inevitably found out anyway, walking past one day while we were training, but all he did was shake his head in disappointment.
My unworthiness in the King’s eyes began the instant the midwife announced what was—or rather wasn’t—between my legs. Over the years, Father’s disinterest grew deeper. For the past ten or more years, he’s so rarely glanced my direction that I no longer feel the sting.
I can’t remember my mother’s face. If it weren’t for her few portraits, I’d have no idea. Even when she lived, I saw her but once a day, only when Nurse presented me for inspection.
The woman who raised me moves on to scrub my neck and my arms, and I realize my memories of childhood may be faulty. Perhaps the Queen did gather me into her arms once or twice. I much prefer to believe that she did.
I let my mind travel inside my imagined past, while Nurse continues to bathe me, scrubbing all the dirt lodged in my skin and from under my nails. Then she washes all the evidence of nature from my hair.
By the time Nurse has dried me, I feel so clean and new I expect I sparkle like freshly polished silver.
Dressers enter the room, and soon two battle together to yank the laces of my corset.
“Could you loosen that, please?” I ask, my voice tight—constricted.
“Your father wants to see you especially beautiful tonight.” The dressers giggle as they tug the laces even tighter.
I grunt in protest. “Does he want to see me alive? Because I fear a rib bone just punctured my lung.”
Dresser slightly loosens the ties, but relief comes only in contrast to the ridiculous extent of the initial constriction. I once found a book in the library about the fauna of Nathia, containing an illustration of a snake native to the jungles there. A snake capable of killing a man by encircling his body to crush his bones and organs. After reading that book, I had nightmares for months.
‘That’s what happens when lasses read,’ Nurse said when she threatened to lock me out of the library for good. After that, I never repeated my fears of constrictor snakes or other dangers in faraway kingdoms.
Eventually my nightmares lessened. I’ll never face dangers like that. It’s not like I’ll ever get the chance to explore or escape my controlled and sheltered life here.
My mind again drifts to the mysterious stranger, wishing he’d held me against him longer. Wishing I could have ridden away with him. Did he call himself Saxon? The word was lost on the wind.
Gown on, I’m shuffled to a padded bench in front of a silvered glass, and Hairdresser starts to work on my hair. Her apprentice rubs rouge on my lips and my cheeks, even though they’re already quite red—both from the bath and from memories of the stranger’s heat penetrating my body as he held me against him.
Hairdresser and her apprentice pull and twist my long pink locks, and I ignore the pain as they jab long pins to hold it in place.
I close my eyes, and memories flood back so strongly I can smell the stranger’s scent, feel his fiery heat and sense the power housed in his form.
