The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE





BRITTA LAY WITH her eyes closed. She let herself float upwards. The duke didn’t seem to notice that she was no longer sharing his bed, that she had slipped free.

She drifted near the ceiling, as light as a leaf floating on water. The person Duke Rikard was grunting over, whose legs he was spreading, wasn’t her. She was serene up here, where nothing could touch her.





WHEN BRITTA WOKE, she was alone. Even though he had gone, Duke Rikard’s scent still smothered her. She could smell his sweat, the musk of his arousal. It was ingrained in the sheets, ingrained in her skin.

Her throat closed. She couldn’t breathe.

She thrust herself out of the bed, tangling in the sheets, landing on hands and knees, her chest heaving.

“Britta!” Someone knelt with her. Hands touched her lightly. She flinched before she realized they weren’t the duke’s—small, soft, gentle. “Are you all right?” It was Yasma’s voice.

Britta squeezed her eyes shut, gasping to breathe.

“Princess?”

Her breathing steadied. Britta opened her eyes, allowing Yasma to help her stand. She turned her gaze from the bed, from the rumpled sheets and tumbled pillows, refusing to think about what those things meant. “What’s the time?”

“The third bell has just rung, princess.”

“I need to wash.” I need to scrub him off me.

“I have a bath ready for you.”

She allowed Yasma to slip an arm around her waist and guide her towards the bathing chamber. Her thoughts moved as slowly as her feet. Third bell. The duke usually returned at the fifth bell, at noon. Tightness grew in her throat again, in her chest. She halted.

“Princess?”

“The poppy juice. I’ll take it now.”

“So early, princess? You’ve only just woken.”

Early, yes, but what if the duke came early too? What if he came back at the fourth bell, today, instead of the fifth? “Now,” Britta said, making it an order.

Yasma hesitated. She shook her head. “Britta, I—”

“You have some? Tell me you have some!” Her voice held a note of panic.

Yasma bowed her head. “I have some. I’ll prepare it while you bathe.”





YASMA BROUGHT THE poppy juice while Britta scrubbed away Duke Rikard’s scent. Was her skin thinner now from all the scrubbing she’d done, every day, with bristles and soap?

His smell washed away, but not the bruises that marked his ownership of her. They were stamped on her skin.

“Princess.” The maid knelt beside the bathtub, a small goblet in each hand. She held out one.

Britta dropped the brush. She took the goblet with shaking fingers, lifted it to her mouth, gulped.

The dark juice tasted bitter. It tasted like serenity.

The duke seemed to recede as she handed the goblet back to Yasma. Her breath didn’t hitch any more, nor did her fingers shake.

She drank the dung-root juice next. The liquid was pale and cloudy, with a fennel-like taste and sulfurous smell. It didn’t give her serenity; it gave her hope. No children, she whispered in her mind as she swallowed, a silent prayer to the All-Mother.

Britta handed the goblet back. “Thank you.” She picked up the brush and resumed scrubbing.