The rattling subsides.
“I’d hate to think of you hanging from the gallows,” Adora continues, as if nothing’s happened. “It’s such an unbecoming way to die—makes a woman’s face look so puffy and unattractive. Something you deserve, but still . . . so hideous.” She stirs the cup set in front of her by the nervous-looking maidservant, then takes a sip. The maid and I both crinkle our noses. Whatever the foul-smelling broth is, it’s not working fast enough to cure the hangover effects of last night’s party and late after-hours with the king and High Council spent assessing the “new development” in her chambers. The poor lady looks terrible.
Green tendrils of hair shoot every which way in puffs from their curly perch atop her head, as if running for their lives from the frog hat. And the butterfly paint on her face is smeared. Like she threw the bug back up after she ate it. Perhaps she should bathe her entire body in the stinky broth.
She takes another drink, and the smashed butterfly wrinkles. “I see Breck put you in the appropriate clothes.”
I glance at the blue-dyed leathers Breck tossed me this morning—pants, shirt, and calf-high, lace-up boots. Even their casual wear here is glorified.
“You’ll wear that outfit every day. When you need more, you’ll request them from me. If I agree with your need and approve of the use you’ve made of your current leathers, I’ll send Breck to purchase more. The only time you’ll dress in something else is when I’m hosting a party, in which case you’ll make a background appearance in a dress. Long-sleeved to hide your . . .”—she makes a distasteful face—“markings. Aside from the gown I generously gave you yesterday, I’ll send Breck up with three more. Don’t ruin them.”
Apparently Breck didn’t tell her about the torn destruction of last night’s gown. I’ll have to remember to thank her.
“You will take your meals with Colin. You’ll not take advantage of my charity, nor will you waste my time or resources. Inside this house, you will display yourself as submissive. However, you’ll also remember you are being trained as a . . .” I wait for her to say weapon, but she seems to catch herself. “As a defender of Faelen. And as such, I’ll not have you moping like a pathetic servant. Outside of my presence, you’ll display the attitude of one protecting my house and estate. You’ll train fast and hard until bruised and exhausted because, as we saw last night, we haven’t got time. Understood?”
“Yes, m’lady.”
She looks closely at me. “Can you read?”
I nod. “My fifth owner, a schoolteacher, taught me.” He believed teaching a slave to read was no different than teaching a child.
She seems surprised. But pleased. “Is that where you learned to speak properly rather than in the common peasant tongue?”
I nod.
“Well then, all free time will be spent reading the war strategy books you’ll find in the library.”
A slight tremor shakes the windows but doesn’t continue on.
Another slurp of her stinky drink.
“You may go. You’ll find Eogan and Colin out back. They’ve already begun for the day. Breck will show you out.” She gestures me toward Breck, who’s appeared against the back wall. Then Adora settles in with her drink and closes her eyes over a desk full of notes, which, from what I’ve deciphered, confirm the rumors that Bron airships do, in fact, exist—a feat of impossibility leading to questions of how far advanced they are beyond us. Although the council’s not clear how many there are or how far they can reach. They think last night was a test run.
“You decided to stay,” Breck says once the door is shut behind us. She directs us down the now-familiar passage, then toward the exit I used last night. She hesitates before opening the door. “An’ I’m just goin’ to warn you now that Colin says Eogan’s a hard one. But ’e knows ’is stuff.”
Hard? Hard doesn’t even begin to describe that man’s personality. But she’s right about him knowing things if last night’s “storm siren” comment was any indication.
Then, as if an afterthought, she adds, “An’ the housemaids all say he’s quite a looker, so I’ll warn you now not to get all silly ’bout ’im. Adora’ll ’ave none of it. She’s got her own interest in ’im.”
“Eogan? Isn’t she a little old?”
“All’s fair game when it comes to the ol’ crazy. Rumor ’as it, last year she orchestrated a kitchen maid’s death who was gettin’ too invested in ’im. Doubt Eogan even knew the girl existed, poor thing. But he’s in some league of ’is own in her mind. Not that I can see why. Obviously.” She chuckles and shoves on the thick door, and we’re abruptly immersed in a smoky morning breeze and toasty sunlight.