rugs of blues and greens. Opposite the huge fireplace was an equally wide down-stuffed bed, and a looking glass stood by the door. An armchair and footstool were bathed in sunlight pouring through the leaded casements and small doorway that filled one wall. They opened to a cloister and interior garden where ivy climbed around the stonework, and flowers scented the air with heady sweetness.
I took my first deep breath then, drawing in the hush and peace of the room—but for a moment only, since behind us crowded a lively force of helpers. Information, it seemed, had traveled as quickly through the castle as I. “Haste now! She is here!” echoed in the corridors, and in came servants bearing ahip bath, buckets, clothing, food, and an assortment of soaps and brushes and towels. A cup of sweet tea was given to me to swallow, then the pine needles were shaken from my hair, salve dabbed on my wrist burns, and my clothes unlaced and bundled away. Two girls casting curious glances hurried through the cloister door and began drawing water from the pool that graced the center of the garden. It was done so quickly that I could only blink at the busy figures and wonder why I was not overwhelmed.
It was too beautiful; they were too attentive. None of it appropriate to my status. I said aloud to anyone who might stop long enough to listen, “This is a mistake. I am the trespasser the Riders brought from the hills.” I grimaced a little at my own honesty, expecting I’d just asked for some dank dungeon to replace these pleasures.
A stout, motherly, apple-cheeked woman came over to pull the last burrs out of my tangles. She smiled at me. “We welcome all who reach the castle.”
So, if not killed outright, as Sir Farrin warned of trespassers, then welcomed? I stared at her. I would have sensed a lie through her hands even if her smile held. But she spoke truth.
“But what of the Council? I was brought here for that.”
“Council will be tonight,” the woman said. “You shall rest and heal first.”
Nayla was her name. She announced herself my attendant, and with brisk efficiency directed my arrival. Trays placed here, towels stacked there—she helped me limp to the bath, shushed a young girl who was pointing to my shoulder, andasked brightly, “Found on the hills, were you?” I’d barely nodded before buckets of freshwater poured over my head,
warm
freshwater.
“A spring-fed pool, my lady, but our kitchen fires burn directly below it,” Nayla explained, then turned a stern eye to my filthy hair. I gave over to the luxury of assistance. Not even at market day had I been so close to so many people at once, and yet here their touch showed nothing disturbing, simply the soft hum of tranquil energy as they scrubbed me clean with soaps and oils, unfamiliar but enticingly perfumed.
“Colraigh and elspen,” said Nayla with a nod when I murmured something about it. “They take to water. In it their scent expands. Some are growing just outside.” She tsked, “Pine sap,” and scoured my elbows.
I looked out at the girls drawing the water, running along a footpath leading to the wide pool. The garden was enormous; one wing of the castle must have been built to surround it. The deep-green lawn was bordered by white flowers—not quite the shape of roses—jumbling up the stone pillars spaced evenly along the cloister. Ivy and boxwood draped and bordered as well—a tease to conceal stone and space. This was not what I’d imagined. The directions to Bren Clearing had not included this.
At last, cleaned of three days’ travel, I was dried with a sheet of linen warmed by the sun and helped from the tub. The other assistants withdrew with their buckets and bath while Nayla lifted a gown from the bed. “For sleep,” she said just as I yawned, and exchanged the linen sheet for this. “Now come sit by the window and eat something while I attend to your ankle.”
There was stew, hard cheese, and bread. There was fruit, and
I took my first deep breath then, drawing in the hush and peace of the room—but for a moment only, since behind us crowded a lively force of helpers. Information, it seemed, had traveled as quickly through the castle as I. “Haste now! She is here!” echoed in the corridors, and in came servants bearing ahip bath, buckets, clothing, food, and an assortment of soaps and brushes and towels. A cup of sweet tea was given to me to swallow, then the pine needles were shaken from my hair, salve dabbed on my wrist burns, and my clothes unlaced and bundled away. Two girls casting curious glances hurried through the cloister door and began drawing water from the pool that graced the center of the garden. It was done so quickly that I could only blink at the busy figures and wonder why I was not overwhelmed.
It was too beautiful; they were too attentive. None of it appropriate to my status. I said aloud to anyone who might stop long enough to listen, “This is a mistake. I am the trespasser the Riders brought from the hills.” I grimaced a little at my own honesty, expecting I’d just asked for some dank dungeon to replace these pleasures.
A stout, motherly, apple-cheeked woman came over to pull the last burrs out of my tangles. She smiled at me. “We welcome all who reach the castle.”
So, if not killed outright, as Sir Farrin warned of trespassers, then welcomed? I stared at her. I would have sensed a lie through her hands even if her smile held. But she spoke truth.
“But what of the Council? I was brought here for that.”
“Council will be tonight,” the woman said. “You shall rest and heal first.”
Nayla was her name. She announced herself my attendant, and with brisk efficiency directed my arrival. Trays placed here, towels stacked there—she helped me limp to the bath, shushed a young girl who was pointing to my shoulder, andasked brightly, “Found on the hills, were you?” I’d barely nodded before buckets of freshwater poured over my head,
warm
freshwater.
“A spring-fed pool, my lady, but our kitchen fires burn directly below it,” Nayla explained, then turned a stern eye to my filthy hair. I gave over to the luxury of assistance. Not even at market day had I been so close to so many people at once, and yet here their touch showed nothing disturbing, simply the soft hum of tranquil energy as they scrubbed me clean with soaps and oils, unfamiliar but enticingly perfumed.
“Colraigh and elspen,” said Nayla with a nod when I murmured something about it. “They take to water. In it their scent expands. Some are growing just outside.” She tsked, “Pine sap,” and scoured my elbows.
I looked out at the girls drawing the water, running along a footpath leading to the wide pool. The garden was enormous; one wing of the castle must have been built to surround it. The deep-green lawn was bordered by white flowers—not quite the shape of roses—jumbling up the stone pillars spaced evenly along the cloister. Ivy and boxwood draped and bordered as well—a tease to conceal stone and space. This was not what I’d imagined. The directions to Bren Clearing had not included this.
At last, cleaned of three days’ travel, I was dried with a sheet of linen warmed by the sun and helped from the tub. The other assistants withdrew with their buckets and bath while Nayla lifted a gown from the bed. “For sleep,” she said just as I yawned, and exchanged the linen sheet for this. “Now come sit by the window and eat something while I attend to your ankle.”
There was stew, hard cheese, and bread. There was fruit, and
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