The Captive Maiden

Gisela went over and looked into the pitcher. Was her stepmother trying to poison her? She sniffed it. It looked and smelled like water from the well.

 

She poured a bit of water into a small cup made from a hollow gourd and put it to her lips. She took the tiniest sip. It tasted like water. She waited to see if it would have a bitter aftertaste, or if her throat would suddenly constrict. Nothing happened. But she had better wait to make sure.

 

She suddenly realized how much she wanted a bath. In the far corner of the room, she poured most of the water in a basin and hurriedly washed herself, keeping an eye on the door.

 

When she was finished and had put on her best chemise, she sat back down by the window to keep working on her dress. The rip was jagged and frayed. She did her best to conceal her stitches, to prevent the bodice from looking skewed, but even the best she could do still made the dress look quite flawed.

 

She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. How could Valten be proud to be seen with her if she was wearing this dress? How could she make him see that she was good enough, pretty enough, to be worthy of him?

 

A tear dripped onto the dark green fabric. Now it would be stained too. She flung the salty drops off her cheeks. Who was she fooling? She was only a servant. When she was seven, her father often told her she was special, that she was beautiful, that she was born to be someone extraordinary. At seven it had seemed possible that she would marry the heir to the duchy of Hagenheim. But her father’s words now seemed a foolish jest and not at all the way her life had turned out. At some point she had realized her father, whom she had always adored, had been wrong.

 

Gisela carefully laid the dress aside and walked to the fireplace. She took out the loose brick and pulled his small portrait out of its hiding place. Somehow his memory had gotten entwined with the memory of Valten as a fourteen-year-old boy, coming to her home to buy a horse. At the time she hadn’t seen anything farfetched about her marrying the future duke of Hagenheim. Now …

 

“Father, I didn’t want you to die.” She touched his portrait face with her fingertip. But he did die, and she must face her problems and take care of them herself.

 

She sighed and put the picture away, hiding it behind the brick and turning back to the dress. Perhaps she could find something pretty to sew onto the bodice, some kind of border, to disguise the rip. She had to.

 

Turning back to the trunk, she searched through every inch of it. She decided she could cut up the pink dress and use it to make a border around the hem, the neckline, the waist, and the cuff of the sleeves. She stood staring at the two fabrics. She could work all night, could finish the sewing by morning, but what would it look like when she finished? More like a jester or jongleur’s costume than a lady’s dress!

 

Gisela groaned and dropped both dresses back into the trunk. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was already late. She walked to her open doorway and stood still, but she didn’t hear a peep. Evfemia must be in bed.

 

God, what am I to do? She tilted her head back and looked up at the ceiling.

 

Wear the red dress again. Yes, she could wear the red dress that she’d borrowed from Margaretha. Of course she could. Her shoulders felt lighter, and she sat down on her little straw-filled bed.

 

She’d wear the red dress. Her stepmother, if she was still pretending to be kind, might even insist she ride in the carriage with them back to the tournament festivities tomorrow. Gisela would see Margaretha again. She might even insist on letting her borrow another dress. But somehow it would all turn out well.

 

Gisela yawned. Perhaps she should sneak out and ask Ava if she could sleep at her house tonight, but she was so exhausted after the long day. She had sat in full view of practically everyone in the region, been tense and terrified for Valten, and now her bed was the only place she’d like to be.

 

Her door was still open. I mustn’t sleep too hard or too long. She had to remain on her guard in case her stepmother tried to keep her from going to the tournament or the ball tomorrow. Truth be told, she didn’t care about the tournament. Men would be engaged in competitions of archery and feats of strength, but Gisela had no interest. All she truly cared about was the ball and dancing with Valten, to see him again and talk to him.

 

She sighed, lying down on her bed in her chemise. She pulled the worn-thin blanket over herself, laid her head on the pillow, and drifted to sleep.

 

 

 

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