Chapter 3: Lavender

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  He wasn’t wrong, I realize as I am confronted with my reflection in the wall-mounted mirror.

  An impressive amount of locks has been freed from my usual work braid, now framing my pale, torn up face in matted, dark clumps. Specks of dirt and mud are sprinkled on skin and fabric alike, from head to toe. Adding the blooming shades of red, yellow, and violet scattered about my arms and legs, I almost look like some stained glass mosaic - like the one in the church back home.

  Clearing her throat pointedly, Chiselle strides into the bathing chamber with a large wooden bucket in her arms. I immediately tear my gaze from myself, suddenly uncomfortably aware of my own appearance and how it puts me in stark contrast to the general tidiness of this place. I push the thought aside and watch as Chiselle dumps the steaming contents of the bucket into the now almost full bathtub, mixing freshly boiled water with the cold water from the pump that seems to be connected to the roof. Then she puts the bucket down next to the tub and points from me to the smaller container. I frown.

  “You… want me in that one? I don’t think…”

  Staring silently at me, she gives me a second to correct myself. When I don’t, she rolls her eyes and taps a fist to her forehead once, likely more to herself than me. Without further instructions, she drags a stool with a folded towel on top close to the bathtub, then plucks a few remedies from the cabinet beneath the mirror and gathers them in a woven basket. The basket is handed to me rather impatiently, and the woman repeats her pointing gesture once before leaving the room and closing the door.

  I stare at the bucket she used to bring boiling water upstairs from the kitchen, still unsure what she wants me to do with it. But as staring doesn’t bring me any answer, I shed my clothing, piece for muddy piece, leaving it in a pile on the floor before gingerly stepping into the bathtub. Long forgotten heat wraps around my body, permeating my bones, as I submerge myself in the water, and a low sound of appreciation rumbles in my throat.

  The block of soap from the basket has pieces of dried flowers and herbs in it and makes the entire room smell of lavender and rosemary when I rub it to a frothy lather between my palms. Slowly, I scrub my body and massage soap into my hair. Then, closing my eyes, I lean back, resting my head against the lip of the tub. Breathing deeply, I’m suddenly back home in my room, lounging on the broad windowsill in the late summer afternoon, the blooming lavender a soft whisper in the breeze beneath the open window and the sunshine warm against my skin.

  Soon, the calmly swaying liquid, warm and welcoming like a mother’s embrace, threatens to lull me to sleep.

  I’m torn forcefully from the imaginary symphony of bumblebees buzzing lazily amongst flowerbeds and horses nickering in the distance by a sudden noise in the adjacent chamber. Reminded that I’m not alone - and that I didn’t lock the door before stripping down - I sit up and cover myself with my hands. It’s probably only Chiselle, but I wouldn’t - not by a long shot - consider our relationship friendly enough to share this amount of skin between us. Luckily, the door remains closed.

  I better get finished before she decides to barge in again, though.

  When I’m done rinsing off all the soap, the water around me has taken a murky brown shade - but I suppose that’s what happens when you spend an entire night rolling in the mud.

  I’m halfway through drying myself off when a knock on the door interrupts me. Instinctively, I turn away from the door, quickly wrapping the towel around myself barely in time for Chiselle to pop her head inside and wave me over. Warily, I grab my crutch and meet her at the doorway, where she gestures to the set of clothes she has laid out on the bed for me.

  “Thank you,” I say and try to withdraw back inside the bathing chamber, but the redhead slips past me before I can close the door again. Tentatively, I remain by the door and watch as she strides directly to my pile of dirty clothes, a disgruntled sneer on her face as she starts picking it up and dropping it in the empty bucket. Left on the floor is a series of mud stains, and I finally understand.

  “Ah, shit. Sorry.”

  Nevertheless, Chiselle’s icy blue eyes bore into mine as she leaves with the bucket.

  “I’ll clean it up,” I yell after her. I’m not sure how, as I cannot exactly kneel for the time being, but I’ll figure something out.

  I grab the clothes on the bed and return to the bathroom to try it on. Judging by the size, it must be Chiselle’s own; it clings tightly to my body in all the places where two decades of daily tavern meals have rounded my figure. Much to my appreciation, she has chosen a dress with lacing in the front, and adjusting the ribbon immediately offers me a more comfortable fit, albeit still a somewhat snug one. Back home, a dress this tight would likely make half our male patrons - and all our female ones - frown in disgust and the other half stare in lust - and Mama would smack me until I went and changed to something more appropriate. Let them stare, but never invite their hands; the first lesson she taught me once I was old enough to help serve at The Rabbit and the Rooster. And when I got older, she added: No getting involved with the patrons, and no fooling around until marriage. She’s always been adamant about those things.

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  So how come I allowed myself to be entranced by the strangers the other night? If they hadn’t persuaded me to drink on the job so they could poison me, if they hadn’t been so considerate to help me outside before I could empty my stomach right on the floor… If they had simply been two irresistibly charming patrons with no ill intentions, what would have happened then? Would I have gone with them? Would I have allowed them to fuck me one at a time - or perhaps simultaneously - somewhere behind the stables? What did I expect, really?

  Until now, I haven’t allowed myself to think too much about it. Perhaps because the answer, the unexpected and somewhat foreign attraction I felt the other night, frightens me more than I’d like to admit. And it raises the question: What am I going to tell Mama and Jorn when I finally get home? They must be worrying themselves sick, not knowing what became of me after I was carried outside.

  At least I have a few weeks to figure it out, it would seem.

  Pushing the thoughts aside and straightening the bodice, I check myself in the mirror - and grimace. Black washes me out and makes me look pale and sickly. Like a corpse almost. But Chiselle’s dress will have to do for now. A thorough wash and a bit of patching should get my own ready in a few days, hopefully.

  It takes me some time to comb through the bird’s nest of wet curls, the mud now gone but tangles aplenty in its stead. The wooden teeth scrape against the back of my head and make me grit my teeth, my scalp sore and swollen from being smashed against the door. I bet that didn’t exactly make the already chipping paint prettier either.

  When finally I exit the bathroom, hair braided anew, Chiselle is waiting in the adjoining bedchamber. She gives me a once-over and nods curtly, either to me or herself, and then grabs my staff without warning. I begin to protest, but she simply strides past me to grab a washing cloth. Using a piece of string, she ties the cloth to the end of my staff, dips it in the tub and hands the dripping thing back to me, challenge gleaming in her eyes. Then she takes a seat on the edge of the bed, from where she watches me calmly.

  Something about her entire demeanor makes me want to rip off the piece of soaked cloth and send it right into her face, but I already promised I’ll clean the floor. And I only just convinced them to take me in; acting up now would be very unwise - and I’ve practiced idiocy enough these past few days to last me a long time.

  Besides, it’s probably the first time in ages she’s had the opportunity to order someone else around, being at the bottom of the food chain herself in this two-person establishment.

  I simply smile tightly and get to work. I reckon there’s much more to come.

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  As someone who was raised with a broom in one hand and a serving tray in the other, I’ve always considered myself to be hard-working and diligent, especially as an only child expected to inherit her parents’ business one day. But I must admit I am experiencing another level entirely under Chiselle’s charge. Especially since my body is still bruised and tender all over.

  By the time I’m done polishing the silverware - a rather ridiculous amount for two people, might I add - for the fourth time, I feel like my hands are on the verge of falling off. Dread fills me as Chiselle once again saunters over to the table where I’m stationed and picks up a fork to gingerly inspect it against the flickering lights. She hums thoughtfully, picks up another, then a third. Her expression tells me I might as well grab the polishing cloth once more, then a sudden thought seems to cross her mind, and she puts the piece of cutlery down.

  After cleaning my temporary bedchamber and the adjoining bathroom, emptying the tub, changing the sheets, doing the laundry, dusting the sconces in the hallway, scrubbing the floorboards of the entrance hall, doing the dishes, and now polishing the damned silverware four times, I could use a break.

  It’s not like the redhead has been doing absolutely nothing in the meantime, but she’s made sure to remain in my vicinity at all times in order to check in on me every now and then, either to correct me or make sure I’m being thorough enough. This polishing project, however, has been a complete nightmare, and at this point I’m starting to think she’s doing it out of pure spite. Or simply because she can.

  But the woman merely nods in what I assume to be begrudging approval, points at the stack of finely woven napkins on the table, and turns to walk away. Thank God. Almost done.

  As she disappears down the stairs to the underground larder, I start wrapping the gleaming cutlery in white the way she taught me when I unrolled it all at first. Moments later, she returns with a jar under one arm and a basket with what appears to be parsnips or parsley roots and a few other ingredients on the other. She proceeds into the kitchen, leaving me to the last of my tedious work in the dimly lit scullery. I soon find myself staring down at the closed door at the end of the narrow wooden staircase, stomach grumbling and mind wandering.

  I haven’t really had the opportunity to explore the mansion grounds yet; my flight to safety in the dead of night did not exactly offer much of a view, and neither did huddling against the house for any shred of warmth for hours on end. Thus, I have no way of knowing how self-sufficient they are - or if at all. Of course, they aren’t likely to be hiding a grain field in their backyard, so some level of trading seems to be necessary, but by which means? I seem to recall their horse barn not only empty, but in a state of indisputable disuse. So how, precisely, do they travel without a horse? Or do they get regular deliveries instead? It wouldn’t be too difficult with that gravel road running by the house, after all.

  A shudder runs through me at the still fresh memory of a black-and-red-painted wagon crackling along the same stony path, and a dull throb answers at the back of my head. Eyeing the freshly applied wrapping around the gash on my arm, I breathe in deeply, calmly, and roll another pair of knife and fork, then place it by the others in the tray. In the end, I got off cheap. And no matter how much work Chiselle pushes onto my plate, I still owe them my freedom. If they had not opened the door at that very moment… Well, only God knows what would have happened to me.

  Slowly, the tray is filled with napkin rolls. As I finally finish the third dozen, Chiselle pops her head out and beckons me to meet her in the kitchen to a bowl of frumenty and steamed parsnips - and a side of painfully awkward silence.