Page 40 of Untempered
In the back of my mind, I was storing away information for when my head ached less. Doors that could be barred from both sides. Barred windows. Tight, defensible staircase, favoring the upper levels. This place could be either a refuge or a trap.
Over the walls and buildings of the city, I could see all the way to the tourney grounds where flags were flying. In La’Angi, not even the death of the King’s right-hand man could stop the tourney.
A knock at the door made Audrey straighten from her broom, but Thomas moved past us at a fast pace.
Beatrice hesitated beside me, the smile on her lips sad. “It’ll take us time to get used to these new rules,” she said, looking at where Audrey stood, watching Thomas the way a rabbit stares at a rustle in a bush. “Such a brave girl,” she said fervently. “After this morning, to be so kind still!”
I smiled. It felt like someone else’s skin moving on my face. Kind? Brave? This was learned and perfected through a lifetime of torment. I didn’t have tears left in my soul. They were ashes.
Only when Thomas returned alone did Audrey relax.
She had Grahame and Millie fooled—Beatrice, too, and Thomas. She was bubbly, her words coming fast, her hands full of chores. I watched as the three men brought in my own bed, hating that intimacy. Millie was already making up Audrey’s. But my eyes stuck to Chay. Of all of them, he was the threat.
I hated the whole situation. That he’d spotted those handprints before me, that he’d seen through Audrey’s act, that we were stuck with him.
If only she’d cut his throat in the orchard, we’d be in a very different position right now.
He was fetching and carrying when Millie, coming down from above with an arm full of fabric, crashed into him, though he stepped back to avoid her. An impersonal hand under her arm steadied her. She went beet red, but he didn’t seem to notice, stepping out of the way so she could continue on.
He’d make excellent fertilizer.
Audrey began unpacking in earnest, and all I could do was be there beside her until her bath was drawn. When it flooded the room with the stink of too much lavender, I took the books from her hand and herded her toward it.
“I should be looking afteryou.” Her protest was strident, and I could see pushing her harder would complicate the situation, so I let her help me wash Wade’s touch from my body, knowing it would take time for it to fade from my soul. The bath wasn’t relaxing, with work continuing in the tower, but it served its purpose.
The water was still warm when I finally got her in and sitting down. I dressed swiftly and then leaned on the door. Ignoring the bumps and scrapes of what was happening outside, I sat in front of it and held the world back.
At first, she scrubbed herself briskly. “I’m not done yet. I should be bathing later, once it’s all sorted. I’ll just get dusty again.” I didn’t argue. I watched as she scrubbed off the dried blood and lathered her hair. At about that point, I could see her begin to calm. It was a small change, initially—she’d pause to look at the water trickling from her hair before going back to scrubbing. She’d let out a long breath. But gradually, these pauses grew longer and closer together, until I judged she’d come back into herself. As much as she’d be able to, anyway.
The comb I’d been using on my own wet curls, I turned on her hair. She shut her eyes and let me—a testament to her exhaustion and trust.
“Want to talk about it?” I asked, unsure if I could do a good job of this conversation, but understanding the necessity.
“What a day.” She sounded achingly sad.
“You did well.” Nothing but the truth for her. “You protected yourself until you had an opening. You did exactly right.”
The breath she let out was long and shook a little. “I killed a man.”
“You did.” My memory of it was blurry, but I remembered taking the knife from her fingers. “You won free from the best swordsman in the land.”
“Chay’s the best swordsman,” she said quietly.
“Well.” I worked a snarl in her hair free, slowly and gently. “You saved him. Does that make you the best?”
“Doubtless.” But the word was sarcastic.
I wondered what played more on her mind—today, or her yesterdays. “Will you be able to sleep in your mother’s bed?”
“I’d sleep in an apple tree,” she said wryly. I hadn’t asked that, but I let the attempt at misdirection go and kept working on the snarl. “I remember curling up with her in that bed.” Her words were as thin as the few tendrils of steam coming off the water. “When it was dark and cold. I remember how she’d wrap me in with her and kiss my head. It felt safe.”
Safety was an illusion that discouraged people from seeking change. I didn’t need to tell her that. She’d seen it herself.
The snarls eventually unraveled, and I sat, my shoulder against the bath, and met her eyes. Simultaneously older than she ought to have been and younger than I expected, she didn’t offer me any false smiles or reassurances.
“I never thought he’d put me here.” Her eyes were on the ceiling.
“Why?”
