The Gypsy King (29 page)

Startled, Persephone glanced back at Mordecai in mild confusion.

In response, he smiled broadly and said, “I told you that servants could be replaced as easily as smashed dinner plates, didn't I, Lady Bothwell?”

Not knowing what to say to this rather horrible statement, Persephone nodded uncomfortably and turned back to continue her examination of the room.

And that was when she saw it, partially hidden behind an ornate screen not far from the merrily crackling fire:

A great, claw-footed bathtub half-full of steaming water.

As she gazed upon it in wonder, a scrawny servant girl about eight years of age stumbled into the room lugging yet another pail of steaming water.

“Careful, you!” snarled Mordecai as a wave of water sloshed over the lip of the pail. “That water is meant for the lady's bath, not for washing your filthy lowborn feet!”

“Yes, Your Grace!” squeaked the child. Quaking with terror and grunting with exertion, she somehow managed
to hoist the pail high enough to tip the water into the bath. Then, curtseying to Mordecai and Persephone, she hastily exited the room—presumably to get more hot water.

After she'd gone, Persephone turned to Mordecai. “It is all … quite satisfactory,” she said, trying not to sound as overcome as she felt.

Eyes gleaming as though he hadn't noticed how lukewarm her praise had been—or as though he'd not seen her true feelings reflected in her wide, violet eyes—the Regent took a lurching step forward as though he meant to join her on the other side of the threshold.

“In fact,” continued Persephone as she quickly moved to block his way, “when my loving husband and I are reunited, I will be sure to tell him how kindly and respectfully you treated me in my hour of need.”

Her words stopped Mordecai in his tracks. Slowly, he lifted his bobbing head until his fathomless eyes were once again boring into her. Once again, she found herself unable to move or speak, unable to do anything but pray that her facade would not crumble and that her trembling legs would not give way beneath her.

“You do that,” said the Regent softly, “and also remind him that, one way or another, a careless husband is soon deprived of a beautiful wife.”

Hearing an unmistakable threat in his words, Persephone swallowed hard. “And yet … I am safe here, under your protection, am I not, Your Grace?” she asked.

“You are indeed,” he declared, smiling as though considering some private joke. “Sleep well, my lady. I shall return upon the morrow that you may accompany
me to view a spectacle that I believe you will find most entertaining.”

“I shall look forward to it,” said Persephone.

Then she curtseyed deeply—this time taking great care
not
to thrust her breasts forward or bat her eyelashes—and carefully closed the door on the Regent's still-smiling face.

After shutting the door, Persephone stood rigid with her hands clenched at her sides, listening intently for the sound of the Regent departing. For an endless moment, she heard nothing except (she imagined) the sound of his heavy breathing. Then, at last, she heard a soft grunt and the uneven rhythm of his gait as he lurched off down the hallway.

Closing her eyes, she sighed with relief.

“Bath, m'lady?” came a voice directly behind her.

With a distinctly un-noble yelp, Persephone whirled around to see the woman servant gazing at her with the expressionless eyes of one who'd long since learned how to mask her true feelings.

“Bath, m'lady?” she repeated. “Or would you prefer to dine first?”

Famished though she was, Persephone nearly laughed aloud at the suggestion, for who could
possibly
eat knowing that there was a tub full of clean, steaming-hot water just waiting to be soaked in? Trying hard to contain her sudden, guilty excitement at the prospect, Persephone calmly informed the woman of her preference to bathe first. The
instant she did so, the woman looked over her shoulder at the girl servants, both of whom looked to be about Persephone's age. The taller, skinnier of the two bobbed a hasty curtsey and hurried out the door at the back of the room, while the shorter, plumper one bustled forward.

“Don't worry, m'lady,” she said heartily as she hustled Persephone over to the warmth of the fire and deftly began unlacing her gown. “We'll have you out of these travel-worn things soon enough!”

Feeling acutely embarrassed by the prospect of being stripped naked by a complete stranger, Persephone was nevertheless prepared to submit herself to it until she suddenly remembered that the clothes she was wearing were soaked with sickness.

With a horrified gasp, she wrenched her body away from the nimble fingers of the startled servant girl. “Get away from me!” she cried, flapping her hand at the girl. “Don't
touch
me!”

Work-worn fingers poised in mid-air, the girl eyed Persephone cautiously. “Apologies, m'lady, if in some way I have offended—”

“You've not offended,” said Persephone quickly. “I just … I'm sorry, what is your name?”

“My name?” said the girl blankly.

“You know—the particular handle by which people address you,” said Persephone, who could not help smiling slightly as she recalled the words of a certain handsome chicken thief.

The girl gave Persephone the kind of look that she, herself, used to give the owner when she thought he was
being an especially thick-headed boor. Insolent, but not so insolent that the fool could be
certain
she was being insolent. “I
know
what a name is, m'lady,” said the girl with exaggerated patience, “and mine is Meeka.”

Persephone nodded as though this was the very answer she'd been hoping for. “Well, Meeka,” she said briskly, “the fact is that I should like to undress myself and then I should like to personally bundle my clothes into a clean sheet so that they may be burned to ashes without delay.”

Though it was clear that Meeka considered this a bizarre and foolish request, she nodded without offering comment and bustled off to fetch the clean sheet. As soon as she was gone, Persephone hurriedly peeled off her gloves, pulled off her jewels, kicked off her boots, wriggled out of her dusty, mud-splattered gown and petticoats and surreptitiously hid her dagger in its scabbard, the rat tail, the bit of lace and the silky auburn curl beneath a loose floorboard. Then she stepped into the bath, which was so thick with floating rose petals that she felt sure that Meeka and the others would not be able to see her nakedness. Leaning back, she closed her eyes.

“Mmm,” she sighed, inhaling deeply. “This doesn't smell at
all
like rotten eggs.”

“Why would it smell like rotten eggs?”

Embarrassed, Persephone opened her eyes to find Meeka staring down at her with a fresh sheet in one hand, a jar of something in the other and a quizzical expression on her face.

“It
shouldn't
smell like rotten eggs,” said Persephone loftily. “That's exactly my
point
.”

Meeka smiled pleasantly—the way one might smile at a simpleton or a lunatic. Then she went to help the tall, skinny girl and the little scrawny girl who'd just returned with more hot water.

“My older sister, Meena, and my younger sister, Meeta,” announced the plump girl as she helped little Meeta dump her large pail of water into the tub. “Meena is a mute and Meeta only has three toes on her left foot.”

The woman servant—who'd disappeared after handing Persephone over to Meeka—now returned carrying several more jars, a fine-toothed comb, four fresh sponges and a cream-coloured nightgown and matching robe of such a fine weave that they were almost translucent in the warm light of the fire. After nervously introducing herself as Martha, the woman carefully draped the nightgown and robe over the back of a chair near the fire.

So that they will be warm for me when I emerge from the bath!
thought Persephone giddily. She had not forgotten the horrors of this night—or the fact that her companions were still out there in the cold, dirty, dangerous darkness—but she knew that there was nothing she could do about that at the moment and nothing to be gained from refusing to enjoy the fulfillment of one of her most cherished childhood dreams.

And so she relaxed and slipped a little lower in the water as Martha and the three sisters quietly took their places around the tub and gently began to bathe her. The jar that Meeka had been holding contained soap— not the slimy brown homemade variety, but a fragrant, creamy cake speckled with petals and herbs—while the
jars that Martha had brought contained various oils and scrubs. While Meeka and little Meeta each took a hand and began carefully sponging Persephone from bare shoulder to ragged fingertip, Meena wordlessly tended to her embarrassingly grimy, torn feet. Martha, meanwhile, removed the crystal hairpins from her now-dishevelled hairdo, combed the tangles out of her thick, luxurious mane and began working richly scented oils through it.

“Scars,” murmured little Meeta as she tenderly traced the whiplash scar on Persephone's forearm.

“And calluses,” said Meeka in surprise when she turned Persephone's hand over to sponge the palm.

“Yes,” muttered Persephone. “I, uh, like to do my own gardening.”

“As does our King Finnius,” grinned Meeta.

“How fares the king?” asked Persephone, glad for a change of subject. “I heard he suffered a frightful coughing fit this night.”

“Yes. Sad, isn't it?” said Meeka, without looking up from Persephone's soapy hand. “When the rich and powerful suffer as a result of the terrible things they do to lesser creatures.”

“Meeka!” hissed Martha with a wary, darting glance at Persephone. “You've no business criticizing your betters or passing judgment on their actions! And even to imply that you do not pity His Majesty his poor health is to come dangerously close to wishing him ill—which,
as you well know
, is tantamount to
treason
!”

At this most dread word, Meena's mouth fell open to reveal her gruesomely amputated tongue and little Meeta
froze with terror. Persephone stared perplexedly at them, unable to understand why they should be so frightened when there was no one else but her in the room.

They think I am the Regent's creature
, she realized with a jolt.
They fear I will report Meeka's words to him!

Awkwardly, she placed her soapy hand over Meeta's bony little one. “As it happens, I agree with your sister that it was a terrible thing done this night,” she confided. Then she smiled as disarmingly as she knew how and said, “Now, enough chatter. Help me finish bathing, so that I may eat my supper without fear of falling asleep with my face in a platter.”

Despite her expressed desire to hurry to sup, Persephone lingered in the tub until the water was quite cold. At that point, she earned another odd look from Meeka when, upon remembering that she still had marks on her back from the whipping she'd received at the hands of the owner, she refused assistance getting out of the tub, slipped on a puddle of soapy water, and then refused assistance getting up off the floor. When at last she managed to knot her old clothes up in the sheet and slip into the beautiful nightgown and robe, she was delighted to discover that they skimmed her delicate curves as though they'd been made just for her.

Which, of course, they had not.

“I cannot say for a certainty where the Regent found these things, m'lady, but judging by the quality
and craftsmanship, I'd guess they once belonged to the dead queen,” said Martha matter-of-factly as she carved another slice of roast pheasant for Persephone.

“The dead
queen
!” spluttered Persephone, choking on a sip of wine so potent she was already feeling woozy.

“I'd guess the same thing,” agreed Meeka, who was gazing at the roast pheasant with ill-disguised longing, “for it is common knowledge that in the days following poor Queen Fey's death the Regent had her possessions inventoried and thereafter took many of the finer things into his own keeping.” She hesitated a moment before sliding her gaze to Persephone's face and deliberately adding, “It is a well-known fact that our Lord Regent has an eye for fine things, m'lady—and a burning desire to possess them at any cost.”