Her smile becomes shy as if she’s completely aware of what I was just testing. “Yep, I’m blind, and the name is Breck.”
I return the cup to the nightstand, almost tipping it over in my distraction. I’m embarrassed for being insensitive as much as for the inexcusable error she’s made. It’s a mistake no owner will forgive just because of blindness.
“Listen, Breck. I’m clearly not what you think I am, which is understandable seeing as you, well, you know . . .” Great. Just insult the poor girl. I clear my throat and look down at my clothes, which aren’t mine but a thin gown of the softest silk clinging to my scrawny body. Curses. I lick my lips. “Okay look, if Adora bought me, then I’m supposed to be down in the slave quarters. I need you to take me there.” I glance around. “But first I need to find my clothes.”
Breck’s mouth puckers. She nods. “I see. So you’re a bit thick in the head, no?” She sighs and turns to walk off toward a large oak armoire near the window where she pulls open its doors. “Just don’t let Adora know it, right? Try to act smart if you can. She’ll have a lovely ’issyfit if she finds out she spent good money on an idiot.”
I raise a brow. An idiot? I’m tempted to set her straight, except I don’t actually care what she believes of me. I just need to get out of here.
She reaches into the armoire and takes out what appears to be the lone item inside—a dress of beautiful yellow, crisp material with simple lines that speaks of price and taste. “So here’s the thing, right? Try to listen careful and follow what I’m saying.” She speaks slow and precise like she’s talking to a child. “Adora bought you from the merchant auction yesterday. You’re in the right room, cuz I’m blind but not a fool. And you are a slave. Of some sort. You can talk to Adora ’bout that. As for your clothes . . .”
She carries the dress over with an expression of satisfaction. “She had me burn them when she brought you home last evening. And you’re welcome. Now she’s waiting for you downstairs, so we best get on it before she maims us.” Breck holds the dress up to me as if she can visualize it. “Now be polite and give us your name.”
I don’t answer. I just stare at this person who is hands down the strangest servant I’ve ever encountered. In the most extravagant house. Under the most irrational circumstances.
My lack of speech only makes her nod all the more disappointedly. “So you really are an idiot, then.” She bats her hand until it connects with my arm, then pushes me in front of her. “Well, let’s at least get you dressed. Adora can’t have you trompin’ around here with yer looks matching yer dull-witted brains.”
I’m a mute mixture of horror and confusion as she strips me down and goes to pull the fancy dress on over my head. I stiffen for the brief second my tattoos are exposed, just before the dress slides over them. Until I realize her blind eyes can’t see the markings. And then the gown is on, snug and soft and wholly uncomfortable in its foreign luxuriousness. And I’m scared as litches because I know she’s made a mistake and I’m going to get the insides gutted out of both of us for even touching this room and gown.
“Just one of Adora’s old things. Nice, right?” Breck is muttering away. “Well, you won’t think so once you see what she wears most of the time. That woman’s like a High Court fashion stylist all in ’er own twisted self.” She turns me around to face her and runs her hands down me to feel out the dress, as if picturing it through her fingers. “You gonna tell me your name now or just keep on bein’ stupid and rude?”
“Nymia,” I whisper cautiously. “But I go by Nym. From the Fendres Mountains.”
“Nymia? Like the sea nymph? Never been to the Fendres, but I ’ear they got some fearsome animals. Now come ’ere and ’ave a quick look in the mirror afore we take you down to the ol’ crazy.” She steers me around the bed and shoves me in front of a tall looking glass on the other side.
I pause, then gasp and step backward, nearly tripping over Breck’s foot. The person in the mirror is not me. She has my pale skin and blue eyes and everything about her heart-shaped face is mine, but . . . I lean in to peer closer.
The hair. Is not.
It’s brown. A rich, burnished, not-anything-like-me brown. “What the bolcrane happened to my hair?”
“Ack! Should’a warned you. Adora had me put some walnut-root juice in it this mornin’ while you was still passed out. That slave master must’ve hit you pretty ’ard at the market for as comatose as you been the last twenty-four hours. Almost thought you was dead. Anyway, she didn’t want you walking around ’ere looking like . . . well, like what you are. Too many questions.”