Flowers From The Storm by Laura Kinsale

just as well on the Ape as it did on Christian—his keeper grabbed at Christian’s shoulder in a scramble for balance, fingers slipping on wet skin as Christian stepped away, and then a yell and a splash that sent water flying. Icy drops splattered over Christian’s legs.
    The other two keepers found it hilarious. The cellar room echoed to their laughter and the sound of oceans of water sloshing. Christian stood still, unsmiling behind his mask— huge slick flop whaleblunder out . He held his place as he heard the Ape come after him, water pouring and splashing over the stone floor. The metal bar smashed him across the back, exploding pain, stealing his breath, making him stumble for balance—but the other keepers hauled the Ape off and managed to prevent a real bludgeoning.
    They constituted a certain check on one another, the keepers. They had their own crude code. They knew the Ape had held him down too long. And Christian was, after all, a lunatic: allowed his little jokes.
    So the Ape had gone to dry himself, and Christian, back in his cell in a blue dressing robe that didn’t even belong to him, that disgusted him, had Maddy for his valet.
    Dress like peasant.
    Christian glared at the vulgar clothes laid out for him.
    “Wo,” he said. He crossed his arms and set his mouth, clamping his teeth to keep them from chattering, tensing to prevent the shudder that overtook him and sent pain shafting through his back.
    The Ape would have gotten help, tied him up and forced the lunatic’s jacket on him instead. Christian waited to see what Maddy would do, trying to hide the shiver that came with every deep breath he drew.
    His hair was wet; he was cold to the bone. He had no intention of carrying any battle of wills far enough to chance getting the Ape back; he wanted Maddygirl desperately, her calm and straight-spined figure sitting in the chair outside his cell: white stiff… cap… peace .
    “Whon?” she asked.
    He scowled at her. Wrong ? Wrong, did she mean?
    Decent clothes ! he wanted to snarl. No wretched raw bad sew rubbish !
     
    He grabbed up the coat, meaning to point out the awkward stitching, the ill-matched buttonholes, but he couldn’t do it. He just held the coat, muddled again, stuck between the intention and the action.
    With a hot sound in his throat, he threw the garment down. A heavy shudder went through his frame.
    “Sh’boh?” she said. She touched his hand, caught it between hers, and he couldn’t hold himself still, couldn’t conceal the cold tremors or contain the catch in his back on each indrawn breath. He pulled his hand away and went to the window, holding on to the bars that seemed hot beneath his freezing palms.
    She was silent for a long time behind him. He knew she could see the shaking—what difference did it make? He put his forehead against the bars and let it have him.
    The brass lever that controlled the bell creaked. No bell-pull here, too easy for a man to hang himself from the velvet rope. Christian had already thought of it, but they were well ahead of him. They had it all designed, they’d been at it for years; a bumpkin keeper like the Ape had a preternatural ability to anticipate resistance and counter it. Christian was taller, faster, younger; God knew, he hoped he had more brains—but the Ape knew all the tricks. The razor and that incident in the bath had been the first real victories Christian had managed, and his back ached and throbbed where the iron bar had struck him, sparking sharp agony whenever he turned.
    He heard the Ape’s voice in the hall and tensed, starting another shiver in the depth of his muscles. But there was no sound of the barred door opening. Maddy spoke, the Ape hesitated and then made a grunt of assent. His footsteps thudded away.
    Christian turned around. Maddygirl was looking at him, frowning a little, chewing her lower lip. As she met his eyes, she smiled briefly.
    “I’ve runcoles,” she said.
    Runcoles?
    She pointed at the empty