Between (23 page)

“What will happen now? To Duncan?”
And to me.

“That will be up to the Queen. She’s returned, they say. One hundred years gone, and as young as the day she took the throne. You will meet her, and she will decree your future.”

“What is she like?”

Again, the healer avoided her eyes, turned her face away as she answered. “I have never seen her, child—I’m old, but not that old. There are legends—you will see them woven into the tapestries if you care to look.”

“Tell me.” She desperately needed information. The panic was held somewhat at bay by the pain, by the illusion of safety offered by this room. But the calm wouldn’t last, and she knew it.

The woman tidied up all of her implements and wheeled the little cart off into a corner. “I must go. I will leave the salve for you here—you can dress those wounds again, if they pain you.”

“Why can’t you answer my question?”

“I’m a busy woman, my dear, I have others to attend to.” Nonette paused with her hand on the door. “There are some herbs in a pouch in the bath chamber—sprinkle those in the water when you bathe, and it will ease your other hurts.”

With that, she left Vivian in an empty room, staring at a
closed door, with nothing for company but the voices in her head and a silent but omnipresent penguin. The voices were getting louder; she caught herself listening for words.

A dull ache began again at the base of her skull.

A robe hung neatly over a chair nearby. Pushing back the covers, Vivian swung her legs over the edge of the bed. There was no part of her that didn’t ache or burn or hurt. She took a few shaky breaths, waiting for the dizziness to pass again, shivering in the chill of a room that would never be warm despite the sunlight flooding in through a bank of windows that lined the outer half of the curved chamber.

Her head was still spinning when a knock startled her. Poe hopped off the bed and waddled over to stand in front of the door. He hissed and fluffed up his feathers. Again the knock—imperative, insistent. Vivian dragged her battered body to the chair that held the gown, each step sending a spike of pain into her shoulders and down her back.

The dressing gown was flimsy, silken, and she wished for something more substantial. At least the smooth fabric felt soothing on her wounds, but it wasn’t much for either warmth or modesty. The knocking had begun to sound like someone was about to burst through the door. Feeling half-dressed and half-conscious, knowing for certain that open doors allowed in the improbable and the unknown, Vivian lifted the latch.

Two guards flanked the door, clad in chain mail, hands resting on their sword hilts in a way that meant business. A girl, no more than sixteen, with a cascade of fiery hair and a simple, floor-length gown, stood well back, eyes wide and watchful.

The knocker was the center of attention. Male, well built and tall, with a face designed for big-screen fame and eyes the color of jade. Thick dark hair fell loose just to his shoulders, which were covered by a cape woven in scarlet and gold. Scarlet hose ending in pointy-toed shoes emerged from green velvet breeches, fastened at the knee with golden buckles. A scabbard encrusted with gems hung from a belt at his waist.

Poe hissed.

Vivian blinked. “Jared—what the hell are you doing here?”

“My Lady, you mistake me—I am called Gareth, Chancellor of Castle Surmise. I have been sent by Her Majesty to welcome you.” His eyes swept over her from head to toe, lingering along the way. She crossed her arms over her breasts and then cursed herself for doing it, as a knowing smile curved his lips.

“We would speak more comfortably in your chambers, I think.”

He took a step forward.

“I’ve got a headache,” she managed. “Maybe you could come back later—”

“I fear that is impossible.”

“As is entertaining you just now.” She lifted her chin, braced her legs to compensate for the weakness in her knees, and blocked the door as well as she could with her body. Maybe he wouldn’t notice the shaking that she couldn’t get under control.

She must not, could not, be alone with him.

He bent his head and brushed her forehead with his lips. She shuddered at the touch; Jared’s familiar kiss delivered by a stranger. Desperately she jerked her mind back from that abyss. She must not, must not, think of Jared and what he had done in dream.

“Perhaps you are right,” he was saying. “There is not time now for pleasure. Later, then.”

Enduring the feel of his breath on her face, his body so close to hers, was a slow torture. Anger coruscated through the fear. Her fingers tingled with the urge to slap his self-satisfied face. She forced herself to stand quiet, not looking at him, every muscle flooded with adrenaline and ready to fight or run.

A clattering sound drew her eyes toward the corridor, curving to the right at a gentle downward slant. A wheeled contraption appeared, on which a bewildering array of gowns hung suspended from a wooden rod.

“Ah, here comes your wardrobe,” Gareth said.

“My what?”

“There is a feast tonight, in honor of the return of the Queen. You will need appropriate clothing.”

The wardrobe arrived at her door, propelled by a boy who looked to be no more than ten, who had to peer around the rack of clothing to see anything as he certainly couldn’t see over.

“A feast? I—look, Jared—Gareth—maybe you didn’t hear, but I’ve been clawed by a dragon, I think I’ve got a concussion, and the last thing I want to do is play dress-up and go to some feast—”

“The Queen commands your appearance. Prince Landon himself will escort you. He will come for you at seven.”

“Pardon me—Your Lordship—but I can’t see how the Queen would care whether I attend.”

“Oh, she is most interested, I assure you. As am I.” She shivered as his gaze pointedly lowered to her breasts, and she pulled her arms tighter around her body.

He snapped his fingers. “Esme, come.”

The redhead stepped forward and curtsied, first to Gareth, then to Vivian. “Esme will help you dress. Step aside and let the page enter.”

Vivian glanced from Esme to Gareth, and then to the wheeled wardrobe, loaded with gowns. This was not a battle she was going to win. Wordless, she stepped away from the door. The boy rolled the wardrobe cart into the room, Esme right on his heels.

Gareth reached for her hand, and she let him take it rather than create a scene. He turned it over and kissed the palm, his lips lingering. When he released her, the back of his hand grazed the silken fabric over her breast. Not an accident. Deliberately, watching his face as she did so, Vivian wiped her hand on the robe.

An insolent smile rewarded her act of defiance. “We will continue this—conversation—later, My Lady.” He bowed and strode off down the corridor. The guards remained in place, stationed one on each side of the door.

Vivian watched him go with a sigh of relief. Maybe she’d think of something before he came back. If she was a prisoner here, she was certainly being treated with a high level of regard. Turning back into the chamber she saw Esme selecting gowns from the rack, laying them out on a satin-covered bench.

The boy stared, hands behind his back, legs spread wide. “Are you a princess?”

“No, I am not.”

“Can I touch your bird?”

“That’s up to him.”

He took a tentative step toward Poe, holding out his hand. Poe stared, unblinking, a statue of a penguin, and the child lost his nerve. “Can I go, My Lady?”

“Of course.”

Esme nodded her agreement. “Leave the rack. You can fetch it later.”

The page walked gravely through the door, but as she was closing it behind him Vivian heard his feet break into a run and half-smiled. Boys. Dress them up as much as you like; some things stay the same.

When she turned back, Esme was draping a selection of gowns over the backs of chairs to show them off, caressing a frill here, smoothing a bit of lace there.

“Don’t bother with all that,” Vivian said. “I’m not going.” Her body was one weary, quivering mass of pain, and playing dress-up wasn’t an activity she enjoyed at the best of times. Besides, according to her grandfather’s note, she could also expect to find Jehenna here somewhere. The very idea of this meeting turned her cold with dread. How, in all the worlds, was she supposed to fight a woman who had defeated her grandfather? At the very least she needed time to heal before she sought out such a battle.

Esme gasped, clutching a gown trimmed in peacock feathers to her breast. “But I’ve been instructed to help you dress, My Lady. It’s expected that you attend. You must. While you are selecting your gown, I will prepare your bath.”

“I know they expect it. I don’t care.”

“My Lady!” Esme’s face was tight with anxiety. Her hands clenched in the fabric of the gown. “You are tired, My Lady, and sore, I’m sure. I heard about the dragon. That must have been terrifying. It’s a miracle that you survived. Lord Zee is frightening all by himself; he’s so harsh and has all those scars. I don’t see how you survived both him and a dragon all at once. I’ll run a bath for you, shall I? You’ll feel ever so much better, and then we’ll see about the feast when you’ve had a nice long soak.”

“That is his name, then? Zee?”

Esme lowered her voice. “They call him Warlord, but they do say Zee is the name he was born with. I’m sorry, My Lady, you are weary and I am nattering. I’ll go draw the bath at once.” She released the gown with a little start and began smoothing the feathers. “Oh, no, I’ve gone and crumpled it. I’m ever so sorry—” Her voice sounded on the verge of tears.

“Never mind,” Vivian said. “I wouldn’t wear that gown in any case.”

Esme drew a quavering breath. “As you say, My Lady. But it would be lovely on you. I could have it fixed—”

Vivian tried to picture herself in turquoise silk with peacock feathers and failed utterly. “A bath would be lovely.”

“Yes, My Lady. At once.” The girl bustled across the room and drew aside a tapestry hung on a rod with silver rings. Behind it was a bath chamber, complete with a toilet and a large round tub. At the sound of running water Poe looked up, then waddled straight for the bath.

Esme flapped at him with a towel, brow creased in fear, but bravely standing her ground. “My Lady, the water must be clean—”

Poe stopped, cocked his head to one side. He waddled one step forward; the girl took one step back. Vivian laughed. It felt good, normal, and some of the tension went out of her. “He won’t hurt you,” she said. “Penguins are aquatic. Of course he wants in there. In fact, he’s already
had a bath earlier. I suspect he thinks you’re running that for him.”

Poe stopped his advance and turned his head to look at Vivian. She shook her head at him. “It’s my turn.” He waddled away to the edge of the door, as though he’d understood, and took up a position there, watching.

The bath chamber, like the room, was round, with a stone floor and a marble tub. Tiles, hand painted in vibrant, primary colors, covered the wall. Esme, with a watchful eye on Poe, leaned over the tub, stirring the water with her hand. “I’ve put the herbs in that were sitting here—they smell nice,” she said, straightening up and pushing back a lock of hair. “All ready for you.”

“I hadn’t expected—”

“What, My Lady?”

“Running water.”

“They don’t have that in your world? I don’t think I should like to live there, then.” Esme gestured at another fixture next to the tub. “If you need to, um, relieve yourself—”

“We do actually have those,” Vivian said. Why there shouldn’t be plumbing here, she didn’t know. This was Surmise. There might be any manner of oddities that had found their way in; anything from a dream would be fair game. Like a penguin, for example.

Esme held out her hand. “Give me the robe, My Lady, and I’ll help you into the tub.”

Vivian had no intention, in any reality, of standing naked under the eyes of a stranger and a penguin. “I don’t need any help. Maybe you could wait in the other room—”

“My instructions, My Lady, are to help you bathe.”

“Look—no offense, but I know how to wash myself. And my name is Vivian. Enough with the My Lady, all right?”

Esme’s brow rumpled. “I know not how these matters are where you come from, My Lady, but it is not so simple. There are rituals to be observed.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. It’s a freaking dinner. Not
a wedding or a sacrifice or something.” She said these words lightly, but feared the sacrifice as a genuine possibility.

Esme’s lips set in a stubborn line. “A feast. And I’m to help you, My Lady. The Chancellor said.”

“Nobody will ever know. Let’s not, and say we did.”

“I’ll be whipped, I’ll be cast out, I’ll be given over to the dragons…” Esme fell on her knees, hands clasped, tears dripping down her cheeks. “My Lady, Vivian, please…”

“Oh, hell. Do you know what
histrionic
means?” But the girl’s fear seemed genuine, and Vivian couldn’t deny that not only were there dragons here, they were revered and protected and it was highly possible that unruly servants might be fed to them. With a vast and gusty sigh, she unfastened the robe and handed it over, refusing offers of assistance climbing into the tub. The herbs stung a little as she lowered herself into the steaming hot water, and then settled into a gentle tingling that was comforting and invigorating all at once.

Esme hovered, making clucking noises. Poe came over and stood at her feet, peering down into the water as though looking for something. Fish, maybe.

Vivian tried to ignore them, letting her stiff muscles relax into the soothing warmth. There were bruises on her arms, her breasts. Oval shaped, like fingers. It made her feel sick to look at them, remembering Jared and the dream, so she resolutely took in her surroundings instead. The bathroom tiles didn’t make her feel any better. Long-necked winged creatures—dragons, no matter which way you looked at them—depicted in jeweled tones. Women in white drapery. Women in white drapery chained to rocks. Dragons eyeing women in white drapery chained to rocks. Dragons and bloodstained, empty white drapery lying on the ground beside rocks.

Closing her eyes to shut it all out, Vivian saw instead the dream memory of her own dismembered hand in a pile of autumn leaves, smelled the overpowering scent of dragon, felt the beating of the great wings.