Page 58 of Devour
I pin my lips closed and stare straight ahead out the opening where the valley lays.
The woman snaps and orders Helena to grab an oil from the next room.
Maybe this is where I could escape from? If I could get back here?—
“It is a thirty-foot drop with jagged stones beneath. Don’t get any wise ideas.”
My brow pinches. How did she know what I was thinking?
“You wouldn’t be the first to try, and believe me, if it were possible, they would seal it shut faster than you could blink. If you want to end your life, though, it’s an option. I’d suggest drowning in a cascade pool. Much gentler way to go.”
I swallow at her brazen honesty. It’s unnerving but also refreshing.
Helena rushes back into the room with a bottle of oil in hand. Are they going to grease me up before roasting me over the fire?
“Spread a generous amount through her hair. Comb it gently with your fingers to detangle. It may take a while.”
Helena immediately obeys. She retrieves a stool and begins her work on my tangled curls. At the same time, the seamstress reappears with a pile of clothing in her arms. She hangs them on a metal bar. She flips through the garments, considering each one. Finally, she removes a blue dress and grins.
Helena temporarily pauses her work wrestling with my hair and helps to slip the embroidered dress over my body. It is the shade of the sky just before sunrise alters the colors. A dark blue, almost purple.
It’s the most beautiful garment I’ve ever worn, by far. The stitching is gold, with little flowers adorning the chest line.
“What do you think?” she asks me, titling her head curiously.
“It’s beautiful.” I stare down at the thick material. It’s stiff and heavier than I am used to. “It will be difficult to move around in.”
“Yes. Not a practical solution. Perhaps for special events. We have others. Let’s see.” She shifts through fabrics on the bar. “How about this style?”
There is a shear light blue skirt that remains open in the front and a golden belt. The top is much like the first, with long sleeves. She also grabs a pair of thin pants. I don’t know how to respond. The skirt is pretty, but how will it?—
“Try it on. Best to see it on the body before you judge.”
Helena helps to force the top over my head but allows me to pull the pants on by myself. They are thin and cling to my legs like skin. They would be useful in the desert—no place for the sands to pool. Then, she clasps the sheer skirt and belt around my waist. There is a small gap between the skirt belt and the hem of the blouse, leaving just a sliver of skin exposed.
“Ahhh, yes,” Helena croons. “Now, you look like a Drahkita.”
“Yes,” the dressmaker says, without waiting for my opinion. “Still lovely, but versatile. And—” She grabs another garment. “The same style of pants, but with fur for the cold season.”
I’m overwhelmed by the options. For the last year, I’ve worn the same rags day in and day out. When I was a child, I had multiple dresses to choose from. One for church, one for special events, and three cotton frocks for every day. But even then, it was much more basic options and certainly less than the dozen or so she presents to me now.
My heart feels oddly conflicted.
Is this place actually what people made it out to be? It is beautiful, and they have many smiling people with luxuries I’d never dared to dream of.
But then, I remember the blood-soaked warrior. And the skull masked men and women splitting the throat of those who begged for their aid, gulping down the blood like wine.
No matter how lovely the individual elements of this place are, I must remember the sacrifices that pay for it.
I must remember who may pay for it still.
I assume the seamstress notices the change in spirit on my face because she rehangs the other garments and fusses with the one I am wearing now. “It is warm enough and allows a nice amount of movement. It will do for today. I will ensure the others are brought to your nest, and several more will be created for you.”
“Her hair is still so tangled…” Helena says over my shoulder.
“Yes, well, some things take time. Take the oil and continue the work daily until it’s cared for properly. The curls will be absolutely stunning with enough attention.” The woman’s smile is sincere as she runs her fingers down my cheek and to my chin. “You are running late.” The woman’s eyebrows rise, and Helena gasps.
“Late for what?” I swallow.
